The Long Way
by Azzandra
Summary: Between the point of departure and the destination there is the journey. Sten and Amell travel to Seheron. They meet plenty of trouble along the way. AU, started before DLC came out
1. Chapter 1

For all of her initial enthusiasm at the idea, Sten was almost convinced she would not show up, that she would instead choose to bask in the praise and admiration the Fereldans were all to eager to pour on her. Yet he decided to linger on the docks a few moments longer, despite the stench of Ferelden being all the more persistant here and seemingly three times as acrid, and that was when he saw her, weaving her way through the crowd inexpertly, a hood pulled down on her face and a backpack clutched in her arms fiercely.

There is-- perhaps not joy, exactly, but satisfaction at the sight of Amell approaching him.

She looked up and, catching Sten's gaze, quickened her pace until she stood in front of him.

"Am I late?" she asked, looking up at him with a grin at the corner of her mouth.

She had traded her Tevinter robes for her old ones, the same she'd worn when he'd first met her in Lothering. Her backpack seemed filled to bursting and he dreaded to guess what she had packed that she considered essential for this trip, as practicalities did not often come to her as easily as idealism. She also seemed filled with nervous tension, though by the way she slunk around, keeping her head down, that might have been out of fear of being recognized. To her credit, she did not succumb to pride and excessive praise still seemed to embarrass her.

"The ship has not left yet," he said by way of answer.

"Well, then, we should board before it does," she replied cheerily.

* * *

They had to share a cabin, because she was a latecomer and did not wish to draw too much attention by purchasing one of the expensive guest quarters. But the cabin was large enough and furnished with two beds, a desk, a chair and even an armoire. For privacy, the beds had curtains, which seemed to satisfy Amell well enough; it was more than she'd had in the apprentice quarters at the Tower.

She dropped her backpack by the bed and stretched herself over the covers, staring at the ceiling.

"How long will this trip take?" she asked.

"Three weeks."

"That's not very long at all," she murmured and closed her eyes.

She stood so very still for such a long time that Sten thought she might have fallen asleep. He exited the cabin at one point, prowling through the ship to spot anything amiss and when he was thoroughly satisfied at the lack of danger, he returned.

The curtains of Amell's bed were drawn and her backpack had seemingly changed place from leaning against the wall to under the bed, if the strap poking out from under there was any indication. It was evening, so it was reasonable to assume she had gone to bed. This was not alarming.

What alarmed Sten, instead, was that she slept for two days.

* * *

When Amell blearily opened her eyes and got out of bed, her head felt heavy and her eyes tired. She slept without dreaming, as she'd come to prefer, but now she felt as ravenously hungry as in those days right after her Joining.

After she finally dressed and clumsily pushed the curtains aside, she was met with Sten's uncannily level gaze, falling upon her heavy as an anvil. He was sitting on his own bed, oiling Asala, but the way he peered at her, Amell sensed he had more reason than her tangled hair. He did not say anything, however, prompting the mage to ask, in a rather brusque tone of voice,

"What?!"

"Are you feeling well, kadan?" he rumbled, still not moving and only watching her.

"I'm fine. Just hungry. I think I'll get breakfast," she replied, blinking slowly.

"It is rather late for breakfast, considering it is almost evening."

It took her a few moments to process this, following which her eyebrows nearly reached her hairline.

"I slept a whole day?" she asked, seeming quite amazed by this performance herself.

"Two days," Sten corrected.

Amell's brow furrowed at this and she looked to the ground.

"I suppose I was more tired than I'd thought," she said at length.

"It seems so."

That was all there was to it; Sten did not prod with any more questions and Amell went on to brush her hair and go off in search of food. She took a dose of lyrium with her dinner and stayed up nearly half the night, but by the next day, her sleep patterns had returned to normal.

* * *

Sten noticed no other anomalous behavior on Amell's part for the next few days. She sometimes left the cabin, either for food or to visit the deck, but for the most part she remained there, sitting at the desk, absorbed by a book with tiny print and complicated diagrams.

He was somewhat surprised to note that she did not talk as much as he'd have expected, limiting herself to a few perfunctory remarks. The longest conversation they'd had was the one just after she'd woken up that first time. He did not think he would miss her incessant questions or their frustrating talks quite so much, but he still refrained from starting a conversation.

The voyage was shaping up to be quite boring, but Sten was nothing if not patient and if he could entertain himself in a small cage, he could very well do so on a medium-sized passenger ship. So he had no real excuse for his reaction when, one day, as he opened his eyes from a long overdue bout of meditation, he noticed Amell staring off into space.

The book was spread open before her, but forgotten, as she sat with her elbow on the desk and her chin propped in her palm, looking straight ahead at nothing at all. The expression on her face was uncharacteristically unreadable, which he'd learned that more often than not indicated dark thoughts brewing in her head.

"Is the wall truly so interesting?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Amell flinched violently out of her reverie and turned her head to look at him, bewildered.

"What?... Oh... no," she mumbled and gave a strained smile. "I was wondering if... I was thinking about... Well..."

Sten waited as she collected her thoughts and it was a few long moments before she started speaking again, her voice low and hesitant.

"I was wondering about magical research I might find in Seheron, but I can't imagine there would be any, considering what you've told me..." she trailed off awkwardly.

This, at least, was a familiar situation, unlike the taciturn behavior he'd witnessed in Amell for the past few days.

"You still disapprove," he noted as neutrally as possible.

"I won't go into this again," she sighed. "I don't know if your people are justified in how they treat their mages. Maybe they are. Maybe they are and I'm repulsed by this because I myself don't want to end up in a cage with my tongue cut out."

"Is that what worries you, kadan?" he asked as softly as he was able. "Nobody will put you in any cage, I promise you."

She turned around in her chair to face him completely.

"Nobody will put me in a cage, or nobody will _try_ to?" she asked carefully.

Sten had hoped she would not pick up on the difference, but was not entirely surprised that she did. She was far from the awkward, callow child he'd met the year before. The battles, the obstacles, the travels had taken a toll on her and small wrinkles had appeared at the corners of her eyes. He had expected, upon meeting her, a spectacular failure, but whatever she lacked in experience or martial prowess she overcame through sheer dogged perseverance. Yet, perhaps her trials had merely revealed what was already there, a capable woman armed with determination.

Now, however, he saw only the tired veteran of a gruesome fight, disgusted with violence and seeking to avoid it. She had served well as a Gray Warden, there was no denying it, but he disliked to see her spirit dampened in such a way. He almost wished she'd at least argue with him.

"You will be safe with me, kadan," he said instead.

She smiled at this, visibly unsure of how else to reply. Her smile waned again however and her gaze fell to the floor.

"You said once that magic is a blade without a hilt, remember?" she said after a time.

"Yes." He waited to see where she was going with this line of thought.

"I didn't believe it at the time, but I understand that now, late as it may be."

Sten does not understand everything about humans, but he recognizes guilt when he sees it.

"I might have... made a horrible mistake," she continued, looking up at Sten like a child waiting to be scolded. "And it might have been for nothing," she added, quieter still.

"Does this concern your unexpected survival after defeating the Archdemon?" he asked.

Amell blinked, looking surprised by this.

"You know...?"

"I know the one to strike the deathblow was meant to die. Yet you are here, now," Sten pointed out.

"I... yes. I'm here because I'm a coward. I wanted to live."

"So does everyone," Sten replies. "To sacrifice one's life for duty is admirable, but it is not a sin to perform one's duty and survive as well."

"But I shouldn't have!" Amell burst. "I... I had this terrible moment, this thought that... that I spent most of my life locked away from the world and the last year trying to save it and that I wanted to see these places on the map and read that one book in the library that I've waited my entire apprenticeship to study and I thought... I thought it wouldn't be a terrible price to pay, except I realized that I really didn't know the price and it could be anything and I won't be the one to pay it, the rest of the world will and... and I... I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what I'm supposed to do now and it would have been just as easy-- easier, maybe-- to die and not have done something like this at all..."

Her babbling stopped as she hid her face in her hands and leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees.

Sten found himself walking over, kneeling before her and gently removing her hands so he could look her in the eye. She was not crying as he'd expected her to, but she was well on her way there.

He sensed she wanted to be reprimanded in some way for her actions, if only to feel absolved of her guilt. It was childish, he thought, but then, she'd been a child not too long ago.

"If there is one thing you have taught me, kadan, it is that the consequences of a moment of weakness can be overcome," he said, looking at her pointedly. Coming from Sten, this was the equivalent of an uplifting speech.

She looked at him blankly for a few seconds, but eventually her eyes wandered over his shoulder to Asala and, rather unexpectedly, she started crying in earnest at that point, circling his neck with one arm and hiding her face into his shoulder. Sten was momentarily taken aback by this. He was rarely in the position of having to comfort someone and even then, certainly not a hysterical woman. It was... disconcerting.

He was relieved when she finally stopped crying and released him, though this segued into another, completely different kind of awkwardness as she sat there, dabbing at her eyes with a sleeve and he stood as well, unsure of what exactly had transpired and what he should do.

"Thank you, Sten," she said shakily and forced a grin.

"There is no need," he replied before moving away slowly, as if she were a particularly skittish animal.


	2. Chapter 2

"I can't swim," Amell said as she looked upon the expanse of the Waking Sea. She was chewing on her lip thoughtfully.

Sten did not seem to share her apprehension.

"Then stay away from the edge," he instructed.

"I've never seen so much water before," she added, still staring down at the greenish-blue tint of the sea.

"You lived in a tower in the middle of a lake," Sten pointed out gruffly.

"But I could still see the shore on clear days and even when I couldn't, I still knew it was there. This is different. There's just... so much of it... I think this is what dwarves must feel when they see the sky for the first time," she noted, leaning forward, mesmerized by the waves gently lapping against the hull of the ship.

Sten grabbed the back of her robes and pulled her back.

"Yet unlike dwarves, you have a greater chance of falling into the sea," he said at her questioning glance. "Perhaps we should return to the cabin."

"But I want to look at it a little longer."

"Every part of it looks the same. I'm sure you can picture the rest of it when you are below deck."

Amell was ready to protest, but she had the nagging feeling that this might have been Sten's way of expressing concern. It was oddly touching.

"Alright," she relented.

She gave one last, lingering look to the water and turned just in time to see Sten bristle. He looked tense and ready for battle and she could not help but become alarmed as well. She followed his gaze however, down along the deck and near the bow of the ship she glimpsed the possible cause for Sten's odd behavior.

It wasn't hard, really. They were towering over everybody else.

"Are those Qunari?" she felt compelled to ask at the sight of the three giant figures. They had the bronze skin and white hair of all Qunari, but she thought it was best to make sure. They hadn't seemed to notice Sten yet.

"They are Tal'Vashoth," Sten growled.

"How can you tell?" Amell persisted.

Sten tore his gaze away from them and stared down at the mage intensely.

"It is obvious," he said.

'Not obvious to me,' Amell thought, but let it lie.

"We're not getting in a fight, I hope," she said instead. 'We' because she was not about to let Sten fight alone, no matter how ill-advised that course of action seemed to her.

"It would achieve nothing," Sten answered. "Let us leave, the air here has gotten foul." He turned abruptly and strode down the stairs, disappearing below deck.

Amell followed, but her eyes darted one last time towards the Tal'Vashoth. She barely missed one of them looking in her direction.

* * *

She arrived to the sight of Sten intently sharpening Asala. The sound of whetstone screeching against metal unnerved her slightly.

"So there's something I haven't figured out," she started speaking, grasping at any subject to put the Tal'Vashoth out of mind. "How did you know about... about the Archdemon? That somebody needed to die with it?"

"The witch Morrigan was indiscreet," Sten replied without looking at her nor stopping from his work.

Amell opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came to mind.

"_Morrigan_ told you?" she asked, even though she knew it could be no one else. "How did that happen?" And why?

This time, Sten looked at her.

"If you must know, I came across her as she was fleeing after the battle. She stated that she had received her payment in this bargain and you had received yours. She advised me to ask you why you survived killing the Archdemon despite this normally being fatal to Gray Wardens. Then she disappeared."

Amell's mouth went dry.

"You disapprove, don't you?" she managed after a while.

Sten returned his attention to Asala.

"Tell me, kadan. Had this bargain with Morrigan been unavailable, would you have sacrificed yourself?"

"Of course!" Amell replied immediately. Perhaps she was being a bit too defensive about this, but she would have had to, after Riordan's death. She went over it every which way in her head and she could not conceive of a scenario in which she wouldn't have shoved that sword right through the creature's head, especially after what she'd gone through just to be in the position to do so. The point of no return had long since passed her by the time of the Landsmeet.

"I have seen men do inconceivable things in the name of survival," Sten spoke placidly. "You have done your duty. My approval is inconsequential."

Amell's head swam. She wanted now more than ever to know what Sten thought about her, but he was being even more unreadable than usual.

She chose to leave, instead. She didn't think she could be in the same room as him for the moment.

* * *

Amell somehow found herself back on the deck, staring at the sea once more.

It was dark now, but the lanterns from the ship cast sharp yellow light on the shimmering surface of the water and the moon was reflected in the distant waves as a fractured white outline. She found herself charmed with the sea, able to stare at it indefinitely. Perhaps part of this was the mere novelty of the situation and by the time they reached port, she would grow utterly sick of it, but for now it was fascinating.

Yet she felt ill at ease for some reason. Like she was being... watched.

She glanced over her shoulder, but turned right back around and kept her eyes down at the water when she realized the one looking at her was one of the Tal'Vashoth spotted by Sten earlier that day.

She licked her lips nervously. She wished she'd thought to take her staff. Her main arsenal consisted of magic, but when that ran out and enemies were rapidly closing in, she still had to rely on the good old method of "hit them with the big stick in the kneecaps until their legs bend the other way".

Heavy footsteps approached her, but Amell did not turn around to look, much in the way a child terrified of the dark hides under the blanket, convinced the monsters cannot get to her that way. She convinced herself that he had no reason to attack her, but she was just now noticing how empty the deck truly was, how dim the lighting, how easy it would be for a woman who could not swim to fall overboard and drown without nary a soul to know of it... Unbidden, small flashes of electricity twitched around her fingers. A fight, at least, was a situation her body was conditioned to react to. It remained to be seen if it would come to pass.

"A strange strategy, turning one's back to the enemy," a rich voice spoke to her right.

He was next to her, not close enough to invade her personal space, but entirely too close for her comfort.

Amell was at a complete loss. She looked at him properly now, which required she crane her neck up, because he might not have been quite as tall as Sten, but he was still a towering giant. He seemed fairly young; his eyes were yellow and his face was set in a carefully neutral expression.

"I have no idea which enemy you speak of," Amell replied coolly. Hopefully if she played ignorant, he would soon leave.

"How interesting," he only mused, though his gaze seemed to focus on her with unpleasant intensity.

"Not really, no," Amell muttered, resisting the urge to inch back slowly.

"You have an interesting choice of traveling companion, I only meant to say. Or rather, perhaps his choice of _you_ is the more interesting one," the Tal'Vashoth continued.

She wondered if he truly knew about Sten or if he was fishing for information. She decided to play it safe.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I am sure you do."

She held his gaze for a long moment.

"He has told you things about us, no doubt," he commented suddenly.

"I have no idea what--"

"I do not understand why you persist in this pointless game. You are the one accompanying the Qunari, are you not? I would assume he would have warned you against the Gray Ones."

"He warned me," she said evenly, "against the Tal'Vashoth."

"Did he, now?" the man growled, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "I apologize," he said, voice returning to its polite veneer. "I can see you know nothing of the conflict at play here. I am Ashaad."

"I... don't think I should be talking to you," Amell said, momentarily taken aback by the change in direction this conversation was taking.

"Are you not permitted?" Ashaad asked.

"Permitted?..." Amell repeated. "I don't need permission, I simply don't think it would be wise."

"No? Strange. I had gotten the impression you belonged to him."

"That I... what? I'm sorry, but I honestly don't know what you mean this time," she admitted, genuinely confused. Did Ashaad think she was some sort of slave?

"Then I was quite clearly mistaken," he said.

"About what?"

"I had only assumed, because you share a cabin--"

"How do you know that?" she snapped, because she was finally getting the gist of what he'd assumed and needed something else to focus on, lest she blush to death. She really hadn't given any thought to the propriety of this arrangement, used as she had been at the Tower with Templars in every room and with sharing a campsite with any number of fellow travelers after that.

"It is astounding how much information sailors are willing to divulge for only a bottle of alcohol," Ashaad said in answer.

"I see," she narrowed her eyes. "I think it's best I leave."

And she would have. She turned, ready to leave and quietly sneak back into the cabin, slink to her bed as unobtrusively as possible and not mention a word of this conversation to Sten.

Unfortunately, standing right there was Sten, looking as angry as his stoicism allowed.

This, she realized, would not end well.


	3. Chapter 3

Amell was only marginally relieved that she was not the target of Sten's ire, but the way the two men were sizing each other up was not very reassuring.

Neither had drawn their swords yet, fortunately, but it was simply a matter of time at this point. She slowly shifted her position slightly away from the confrontation, while still making sure she had a clear shot at Ashaad.

Sten was the first to break the silence, though whatever he said was in the Qunari language and its meaning was lost to Amell. Ashaad replied tersely, his gaze flicking momentarily towards her as he spoke, then turned on his heel and strode off.

Amell did not understand a thing of what had happened. She looked uncertainly in the direction Ashaad had disappeared into and then back to Sten. The Qunari was still tense and watching Ashaad's departure with undisguised hostility.

"What was that all about?" she asked, her voice meeker than she intended.

"We should return to our quarters," came the only reply. Amell could not argue with that.

As soon as the cabin door closed behind them, however, Sten became quite talkative.

"What did he want of you?" he asked harshly.

"He... Nothing much, I suppose. I think he wanted to know about you," Amell replied.

"What did you tell him, specifically?" Sten continued his inquiry.

"Nothing," she insisted. "I--"

"Tell me exactly what--"

"Sten, stop it!" Amell snapped. "I'm not stupid, I can tell when I'm being pressed for information!"

Sten seemed to calm himself.

"I realize you are not... unintelligent," he said after a beat. "But you were not in a very tranquil state of mind when you left."

Amell shifted uncomfortably. She hadn't been, truth be told. She felt the gaping maw of shame whenever she so much as thought of Morrigan these days and to have to speak of her as well was unbearable.

"I was... fine, when he approached me," she sighed. "He introduced himself as Ashaad," she added.

"I thought as much."

Amell perked an eyebrow at this cryptic remark, but he did not elaborate.

"Perhaps, in the end, you were the one to gain more information from this encounter than he," Sten remarked, with a softening of the features that was about as close to a smile as he ever got.

"What did _you_ say to him?" she heard herself asking.

"I simply warned him to leave if he wanted to continue breathing."

"And what did he say to that?"

Sten remained silent. At first she thought he might have just been playing cryptic again, but he seemed to be hesitating. This stunned her, just a little bit. She had not known Sten to hesitate and it was an entirely foreign experience.

"Was it about me?" She tilted her head at him curiously.

"It was uncomplimentary. Let us not speak of this any further."

He busied himself with unstrapping his sword and armor, all while deftly avoiding eye contact. It was a confusing sight, that of an embarrassed Qunari. A bizarre juxtaposition.

"Fine," she murmured.

* * *

At some point, her relationship with Sten had shifted. She could pinpoint it accurately-- the moment she handed Asala to him; he looked at her as if for the first time with a piercing gaze that she would once have found unnerving. It was soon after that he started calling her 'kadan' and while she did not understand the exact meaning of the word, she did understand the intent.

The early months of their acquaintance had been marked only by uncomfortable conversations that often seemed to amplify the cultural divide between them. Had he not been so reliable in battle, had they not been forced by circumstance to become comrades in arms, in any other given situation, she might have come to hate the man. Instead, she came to trust him implicitly and at times, she even felt the tentative start of a friendship. He was still unapproachable and more likely to find fault with just about anything she represented (a mage, a woman, a Fereldan; she'd even been told at times that as a Gray Warden, she also fell painfully short of expectations). Yet, after handing him Asala, he seemed less inclined to antagonize her. The perfunctory respect she received from him at first had somehow mutated into the real thing and it was obvious that this had taken even him by surprise. At times, she could almost sense affection from him.

She knew (or suspected, at least) that Qunari did not often treat outsiders and foreigners as equals. That Sten did so with her spoke volumes, more than she could fathom. It was, perhaps, the reason she prized his friendship the most. It was as valuable as it was hard-earned. She'd never experienced a similar bond until then, nothing like camaraderie, but could not imagine losing this feeling now. She understood, suddenly, why Sten would have preferred the Sloth Demon's dream to reality. She understood now, if she hadn't then, the way such bonds were irreplaceable. She simply _understood_.

Sten was not a very demonstrative individual, however, and so it still surprised her at times when he let on that he was just as attached to her as she was to him. That he had taken her bargain with Morrigan in stride when she was sure that, mere months ago, this would have been reason for a severe tongue-lashing, proved only how far they'd come.

Yet, in some ways, he was even more of a mystery now. She did not know if going to Seheron would improve her understanding of him at all.

As her thoughts came upon this idea, she felt a twinge of doubt. She had left Ferelden out of a type of cowardice; staying there would have meant attempting to build a life, something she had no experience in doing. Better, then, to travel indefinitely, to far-away, exotic lands than to face mundanity. Keeping busy to avoid reality.

She certainly understood Sten when he talked about finding happiness in duty.

These thoughts plagued her as she fell asleep and for the first time in a week, her nightmares returned. Not the Archdemon this time, but myriad incoherent voices locked in eternal torturous screaming.

She woke up in the middle of the night, morbid echoes still ringing in her ears. She lifted herself up and leaned her back against the headboard, sighing.

She should have known her few nights of peaceful sleep had been but a small respite. She rubbed her eyes tiredly. There was no chance of going back to sleep yet.

She slowly moved to the edge of the bed and untangled herself from the sheets. Pulling the curtain as silently as possible, she lowered her feet to the cold floor. A low, diffuse light spread through the room from the small oil lamp hanging on the wall. The cabin had no porthole or any other source of light and Sten, always expecting an ambush, did not think plunging the room into complete darkness was wise.

Amell's mind wandered briefly as she surveyed the room. A chill was starting to spread up her legs, snapping her to wakefulness fully. She was wearing only a nightshirt she'd been given at Redcliff Castle by a rather pushy servant who'd insisted she could not possibly sleep in her underclothes like a barbarian and it did little to keep the cold away.

Usually, when the occasional bouts of insomnia struck her at camp, she'd poke her head out of her tent and join whoever had watch. That was not exactly an option right now.

She was startled when the curtain from Sten's bed was shoved aside abruptly, to reveal the Qunari. He was propped up on an elbow and shirtless (and my, how uncomfortable Amell felt all of a sudden), but still managed to look like he could just jump into battle at a moment's notice.

"Is something wrong, kadan?"

Amell folded her arms awkwardly.

"Nothing's wrong, I just can't sleep," she replied. "Don't mind me," she added.

"Where did you intend to go?" he asked.

At first, she only wanted to say that she did not intend to go anywhere, but now that she thought about it, perhaps she'd been thinking about going up to the deck. After all, there weren't many places to go on a ship. After the events of that day, however, she rather doubted Sten would allow it.

"I'm not going anywhere. Go back to sleep," she sighed and pulled her feet back up, into the still warm sheets.

Sten did not make any move to follow her instruction.

"Nightmares?" he asked, instead.

Amell nodded, brushing a hand through her hair.

"It doesn't matter," she whispered faintly.

"If you wish, I could accompany you to the deck."

"Oh?" she perked an eyebrow at this unexpected offer.

"I have noticed that the sea seems to have a... calming effect on you," Sten continued, apparently feeling the need to justify his statement.

"Ah, but every part of it looks the same, so I can picture quite well from here, can't I?" she grinned lopsidedly, echoing his words to her.

Sten did not share her good humor.

"Kadan..." he started, but trailed off. He seemed at a loss.

"I just... seem to be in a strange mood," she said airily, filling the silence when he wouldn't. "This last year feels like a fever dream, yet I'm still expecting something bad to happen at any moment."

"Such feelings are not unusual after a prolonged campaign," Sten reassured.

And she suddenly realized that of all people, Sten would know this best. He was a soldier by profession, after all, and he had to have been involved in countless conflicts. There were scars marring his exposed skin testifying to that and the dim yellow light cast shadows over his face, deepening every crease of his features; she wondered how old he really was and how long Qunari usually lived.

She didn't know how long she stared at him, but she eventually dropped her eyes to the ground, feeling oddly self-conscious.

"I shouldn't keep you up," she chided herself.

"I could not possibly sleep knowing you are restless. For one, it would be irresponsible of me to allow you the chance of getting into mischief."

Amell grinned at his flat delivery. By Sten's standards, that remark was downright _playful_.

"Sten, I... I do appreciate that... you let me tag along," she mumbled, growing serious again and feeling all the more awkward for it. "I am sorry for imposing on you."

"You could not possibly impose on me, kadan," he rumbled.

She looked down to the floor again, feeling her face begin to heat up.

"Oh," she perked up, suddenly remembering something. "I forgot to give you something."

She hopped out of bed and produced a medium-sized leather pouch from her backpack. It looked new, for all that it was quite clean. She approached Sten and opened the bag, showing him the contents.

The Qunari lifted himself to sit on the edge of the bed and peered carefully into the pouch, then looked at Amell in surprise. The mage was grinning widely.

"Where did you--"

"I bribed the galley cook," Amell interrupted giddily, looking quite pleased with herself. "I was going to give them to you sooner, but I got distracted... by... things..." She coughed, deciding to veer away from the subject of the Tal'Vashoth. "Anyway, that was why I disappeared this morning after breakfast. Sorry."

Sten accepted the bag filled to the brim with cookies.

"If you..." he began shakily, then cleared his throat and started again, more decisively, "These are clearly too many for only one person to eat."

"Oh?" Amell tilted her head slightly, trying to maintain a serious composure.

"Yes. I will clearly require assistance to finish them before they go stale," Sten nodded solemnly.

Amell seated herself next to him on the edge of the bed and accepted one of the proffered cookies. She restrained herself from grinning too widely while she nibbled on it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleep left her gradually that morning, nightmares melting into mildly unsettling images that did little to rattle her. She became aware of a discomfort in her shoulder and she shifted her position, embracing the pillow and burying her face in it to protect from the dull light filtering through her eyelashes.

She inhaled deeply and was struck by a slight variance in her environment; the pillow smelled differently from how she remembered-- still the acrid smell of soap and seawater that seemed to permeate all the bedding on the ship-- but with an added musk, a distinctly male scent she thought she almost recognized.

Her eyes snapped open and her head rose instantly from the pillow when she realized it smelled like Sten. A moment of confusion passed, then another. What was she doing in Sten's bed, where was he and had she done anything she should be feeling embarrassed about right now?

She brushed the hair out of her eyes as her memory began working again; she recalled cookies and a low-voiced conversation about oranges, of all things. Since she had no recollection of that conversation's end, she'd probably fallen asleep before its conclusion and Sten must have been generous enough to let her sleep in his bed.

Yet a quick survey showed that Sten was not in the room. It was probably morning by now, so this was not alarming in and of itself, but considering some of the fellow travelers on board the ship, she had to wonder if he wasn't somewhere getting into mischief himself.

* * *

It was only in early morning that Amell started nodding off, after being awake for nearly half the night. She alternated between drooping tiredly and snapping herself awake before she finally fell asleep, leaning against Sten's shoulder. For his part, the Qunari eased her down on the bed and Amell soon settled herself into the sheets, mumbling drowsily. She looked very much like an oversized feline, curled up in her sleep as she was.

This development worked well with Sten's plans, because he would not have her questioning him about his whereabouts or even worse, following him.

He quietly dressed and donned his armor. Amell was still asleep when he picked up Asala and exited the room.

His goal was clear; the Tal'Vashoth aboard the ship were unlikely to be heading towards Seheron, but that did not make them any less dangerous. He had avoided a confrontation thus far because it would have likely gotten him and the Warden a place in the brig. Hesitant as she was to attract attention, he did not think she would have appreciated this. If he were to cause a disruption on his own, without involving Amell, he would first need to keep her from knowing anything about it beforehand.

And having Amell know nothing of his actions was necessary at this point of his plan, loathe though he was to deceive her in this way.

He would have liked nothing more than to strike down the three fiends, however, as a soldier for the Beresaad, it was his duty to first glean whatever intelligence he could. Whatever their business had been in Ferelden, the Arishok would find some use for the information. He could kill them _afterwards_. It would be quite satisfying, he thought, to end the ashaad's life, especially after his insulting comment.

It was not long before he came across the Tal'Vashoth, where the narrow hallways between the galley and the stairs up to the deck intersected. They seemed to be expecting him, which wouldn't have surprised Sten in the least.

The ashaad was looking at him smugly, a mistake Sten put down to youth and inexperience. These traits also made him a poor scout, as proven by the fact that he seemed to have learned nothing from his encounter with Amell. The other two were older and seemed much more circumspect. One had a jagged scar running diagonally across his lips, starting from his left cheek and down to the right side of his jaw, as well as other smaller marks. He was possibly a karashok, as he had the bearing of someone constantly at the forefront of the battle. The third and eldest of the three was a mystery. Certainly, he was most likely an officer, but Sten could not guess at the rank just yet. His face was morose and his red eyes revealed nothing.

The officer was the first to speak upon seeing Sten.

"What a curious thing, to meet a Qunari so far from his precious homeland," he rasped.

"I have not come to sate your curiosity," Sten retorted.

"Unless you are not Qunari at all...?" the officer continued. Sten disliked this insinuation.

"I have not abandoned the teachings of the Qun as you have, wretch."

"Then you are to be pitied," the officer only said, seemingly unaffected by the insult. "But this only makes you more of a curiosity. What would a lone Qunari be doing here, dragging along that trophy woman, I wonder?"

Sten had to restrain himself from bristling at this remark. That the ashaad had assumed (and passed on this false assumption) that Amell represented only some spoil of war was, in the grand scheme of things, an advantage. If things worked out as he intended them to, they would pay for that mistake dearly.

"Let us not play around with words any longer," Sten rumbled, his voice just a hair's breadth from hostility. "I will not reveal my purpose here any more than you will."

"Then what is the point of this conversation?" the karashok sneered. The officer turned his gaze towards him and the scarred man fell silent once more.

"I am here only to offer a warning." Sten looked the Tal'Vashoth officer down. "You will keep away from my companion. I have no need for you to poison her mind with your depraved beliefs--"

And just as expected, the karashok sprung to attack. In one fluid move, Asala slid out of its sheath to meet him.


	5. Chapter 5

Amell rubbed her eyes tiredly.

"Sten, _why_ in the Maker's name am I visiting you in the brig?"

"I do not know, kadan. Perhaps because you wish to do so," came the serene answer from the other side of the bars.

The mage responded with a level look. Sten was not the least bit cowed by this. He sat on the small cot in the cell, still covered in blood (most of it not his own, fortunately), completely unperturbed by the fact that he seemed to have ended up imprisoned once more.

"Sten, you almost killed a man."

"Yes. Quite a failure on my part. I would have surely succeeded under different circumstances."

"Sten," Amell repeated more harshly, slipping back into the commander's role easily. "This is serious."

"Yes, it is," the Qunari agreed. "And I will require your assistance."

"I'll talk to the captain," Amell nodded, "I'm sure I can convince him--"

"It is appreciated, kadan, but that is not the type of assistance I had in mind," he interrupted.

"Not the--? Sten, you're locked up!"

"A minor inconvenience, for the moment," Sten gestured towards the filthy cell. "No, I require something else from you."

"Oh?" Amell folded her arms expectantly. "What do you want me to do, then?"

"Acquire knowledge of the Tal'Vasoth's activities in Ferelden."

Amell froze in place, a look of disbelief on her face.

"You want me to-- You-- the-- what?!" she stuttered, then recovered herself. "_Why_ would you think I could learn any of that? _Where_ would I acquire this knowledge?"

"Most likely, from the ashaad," Sten opined.

"And why would he tell me anything?" Amell continued, growing increasingly more annoyed and frustrated.

"Because he is young and inexperienced. And because I've made the Tal'Vashoth curious about you," Sten replied.

"You've made them _curious_ about me?" Amell repeated pointedly.

"Yes. Curiosity is a weakness that can be exploited."

There were several things Amell would have wanted to say to that. _Why did you do this without my permission? _And _You can't possibly be serious about this!_ And _Curiosity isn't a weakness_. And _What _exactly_ did you say about me?_ In the end, she settled for,

"Why can't you do it?"

"They will be guarded around me. I am their enemy and therefore dangerous. You are only a small woman from a backwater country. With me out of the way, they will think you harmless and they will grow careless."

Amell rubbed her eyes tiredly.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked in the end, sighing in defeat.

* * *

It would have been easy to dismiss Sten's plan as ludicrously insane, go up to the captain and use the considerable persuasive skills she'd gained the past year to convince him that it would be best to let the Qunari go. It would have been the sensible thing to do, as well. But she didn't.

Maker knew why, but she didn't. Sten had never been the most patient of traveling companions, but in the end, he'd gone along with her on the long and twisted journey to slay the Archdemon. Perhaps she felt she owed him.

Ah, yes. That would be much better, Amell thought. She did this because he was her friend and friends often did foolish things for each other. Yes, that made her actions seem much less unnecessarily dangerous. Why, it made them seem almost noble.

That evening, the ship was scheduled to dock in the port at Ostwick. This was the farthest Amell had ever gotten from the Circle Tower; all the way across the Waking Sea. This was also exactly one third of the way to Cumberland, the ship's final destination. From what Amell understood, they were to then take the Imperial Highway through Nevarra, then through the Tevinter Imperium and take a ship from Minrathous across the Nocen Sea to finally reach Seheron.

But this was no time to get ahead of oneself.

As she made her way across the ship that day, she could sense she was being watched. The perpetrator was most likely Ashaad. It was clear enough to her that he was seeking an opportunity, some kind of opening, but she could not know for sure what would spur him into approaching her again. For now, he seemed intent on observing her from a distance, and if he did that, then how was _she_ supposed to learn anything?

She mulled over this issue. Afternoon turned into evening and Ostwick became a distinct brown shape on the horizon, so she decided it was time for a gamble.

If Ashaad was going to follow her around, then he'd also follow her into Ostwick. Probably. And if he did...

Well, then she'll just have to improvise, won't she?


	6. Chapter 6

Ostwick was an experience unto itself. It was a port city, much like Denerim in some ways, but while Denerim had the grandeur of a capital city combined with the economic advantage of being a major trading hub, Ostwick seemed to have only the latter and the overwhelming smell of fish. The only reason it was considered to be a city was perhaps because of its sprawl, because the streets were nearly all narrow dirt roads and the buildings were ugly squat wooden shacks splotched with gaudy paint. Yet for all that, there were clear signs of prosperity everywhere. Amell could spot many shops, each with colorful, but weather-worn signs hanging over their doors with artistic pictograms advertising wares. The people wore a different style of clothes than the ones in Ferelden, slightly brighter and slightly more elaborate, as if in defiance of the dull brown dust that hung in the air and the gray sand that seemed to pool against the walls of buildings. Amell looked rather drab in her old Circle robes and the black traveling cloak she wore over them.

She picked her way carefully through the strange city, stopping at stalls occasionally, unhurried and hesitant like a proper foreigner would be. In many ways, her curiosity for the city was genuine, but she still had to be sure Ashaad would be able to follow her. She hadn't seen him since leaving the ship, but him being a scout, that did not necessarily mean anything.

It was getting dark and small lamps were getting lit at windows. The streets were being bathed in dull, flickering firelight. They were also emptier than earlier in the evening, Amell noticed. While shops were still open, the stall owners had packed up for the night and left, most of their customers disappearing as well. There were no more women with shopping bags and loud children straggling after them, no more servants loudly haggling for their masters' groceries, noticeably lesser old people, the few that remained looking hurried; instead, the streets were being prowled by jolly packs of sailors, mostly men, but women as well, tattooed, scarred, missing eyes or fingers or ears, smelling of alcohol and armed to the teeth (or to the gums, for those who no longer had teeth to speak of). They laughed loudly and cursed coarsely and whenever she passed a group, she'd get at least a wolf whistle (usually from one of the men, though not always).

After facing down an Archdemon, there were few things that could scare her anymore. But Amell was still unnerved by the increasingly rowdier groups of sailors. If she were to be heckled by one of them, she might reveal too much. She had no idea if Ashaad even suspected she was a mage and for all he knew, the staff she carried around, made out of gnarled wood and burnt black at one end, could be no more than a walking stick.

As the moon started rising on the horizon and Amell found herself no closer to luring Ashaad into the open than she'd been before, an encouraging sign caught her sight. An inn. She was far away from the docks and unlikely to find her way back to the ship anytime soon. There was no use wasting this opportunity.

So she entered the Well-Hung Moose Inn and Tavern, wondering idly what a moose was, who'd hung it and from what, as well as what differentiated being well-hung from being badly-hung. Sturdy rope, perhaps?

As soon as she opened the door, the tavern part of the establishment was displayed before her. Humans, in preponderance, but also dwarves and a few elves, as well as one or two individuals not of any species sherecognized, they filled the room to the brim, occupying every table, drinking, singing terribly and shouting. A few harassed waitresses (though, perhaps the term "wenches" was more accurate in this case) walked about the room with their trays. An ordinary enough scene for a tavern, not unlike others Amell had been to, albeit a greater number of patrons looked like sailors.

She made her way to the bar as stealthily as possible, which still drew the attention of more... amorously-inclined customers, but she finally made it to the owner of the establishment, sitting behind the counter.

He was a huge old man, with slightly more muscles than fat, his scalp a patch of scars and tufts of white hair. He'd watched her progress across the room with a strange smile she could not guess the meaning behind and addressed her as soon as she came up to him.

"Lost yer way, sweetheart?" He asked, his voice friendlier than she'd expected.

"Yes, terribly so," Amell replied. "I don't suppose you have any rooms for the night?"

"Well, we 'ave rooms, a'right, but th' only ones appropriate enough fer a lady such as yerself cost a pretty coin, they do," the proprietor replied.

Amell nodded, expecting that, and placed three gold coins on the counter top. The old man picked them up carefully and bit into one, appraising. It was soft, high-quality gold.

"Well, fer this, I guess ya got yerself th' _good_ room. Throw in a free bath, too, I will," he said with a toothy grin.

Amell suspected the reason he was being so generous was that she'd overpaid. It mattered little enough to her, since she had more than enough money to spare, so she didn't argue.

"Oy, Pedlham, what'cha got here? Pretty lady and a rich one too?" bellowed a drunk man sitting at the bar.

He'd probably witnessed the exchange, because he was now looking at Amell in the same way the innkeeper had been looking at her coins. Though, he was giving more attention to some parts of her anatomy more than others.

"Mind yer own business, Spitter," Pedlham, the innkeeper, groused.

"Runaway, are you, girlie?" the drunk continued, ignoring Pedlham to address Amell. "Prob'ly one a' those noble bints, ran away 'cause ya think daddy's mean to ya, eh? Or castle life got too boring for ya? Took some a' daddy's coin an' ran off?" He started chuckling, but it rapidly turned into a cough. After this subsided, he seemed to grow pensive, his brow furrowing in thought as he continued to examine her. "Well... bet daddy'd pay more ta get ya back--"

He reached towards her, but Amell pulled back before he could grab her. This seemed to annoy Spitter, because he snarled and reached for her again.

"Oy, sit still, ya stupid nob cu--" He was cut off by a bolt of electricity running up his arm and propelling him back and onto the floor. His hair stood on and there was a burn on his hand.

This, of course, attracted attention. The tavern did not exactly go quiet-- most of the patron were completely oblivious to the exchange, as there were more than a few bangs and shouts filling the room-- but a few people turned her attention to her. She hoped desperately none of them were Templars, but then, she could not imagine this was the kind of place they made a habit of visiting.

"I'd like to go to my room, now," she said tersely at Pedlham's surprised look. He nodded dully and showed her through a side door.

As she was being led away, she heard the whispers behind her back.

"Ya don't mess with mages, y'know. Bad sort, those. Turn people into frogs."

"Ya mean toads."

"Frogs, toads... ya'll be green an' hoppin', is what'll happen."

Amell sighed. She didn't even _know_ how to turn someone into a toad.

* * *

It seemed the disruption she'd caused down at the tavern did not change Pedlham's promise of a free bath. As she sank deeper into the hot water, she couldn't help making slight noises of contentment. The baths on the ship were, by necessity, filled with sea water and perhaps because of its green tint, no amount of soap ever made her feel clean. But this was a proper bath, with perfectly clean fresh water and long tendrils of steam swirling upwards, hypnotically.

Eventually, she had to get out and dry off. She dressed and considered going back down for food, but she'd learned during her travels that this was the sort of establishment known for its drink, rather than its food. Still, she had other business to attend to.

The tavern was still in full swing. If word had gotten around that a mage was seen attacking someone there, it had done little to deter the revelers. She caught Pedlham's eye and he nodded towards her. After showing her to her room, Amell had given him another gold coin to keep an eye out for Ashaad. Sure enough, the Tal'Vashoth had followed her in and taken a table in one of the darker corners. He watched the room with undisguised contempt.

She was not a stealthy individual by nature, but she was slight of body and the room was in such chaos, that by the time Ashaad noticed her, she'd already slipped into the other chair at his table. He looked at her, trying to appear unperturbed, but he tensed in such a way that she was sure she'd startled him.

"Why are you following me?" she asked in the most accusatory tone she could muster.

The delay in response was very small, but Amell still caught it.

"I have questions," Ashaad replied. "Though part of them have been answered, still others arose from those answers."

"Oh? And what answers are you talking about?" Amell asked, her tone just the right mix of belligerence and nervousness to give the impression that she was afraid.

"I have been informed that you are a mage," Ashaad said calmly. "Since I am given to understand that mages are not allowed to run free in Ferelden, I would assume you are a-- what are they called? Ah, yes, an apostate."

Amell turned her head towards her staff, which she'd leaned against the wall. Sten had informed her of Ashaad's unfortunate habit of drawing rash conclusions from minimal evidence and had advised her to use this against him. Partly, this tendency was because of his relative youth (because even if he was younger than Sten or the other Tal'Vashoth, she could still tell he was older than her), but most likely, it was cultural. Ashaad attempted to assign his own reasons for events around him, rather than seek the actual causes or understand the context.

She took a deep breath, as if building up her courage, and turned to look at him.

"And who might have lied to you that I am a mage?" she asked.

Ashaad's eyes flicked towards Pedlham. _Ah_, she thought. _Of course. Gave him a pretty coin, did you?_

"Perhaps he was lying," Amell suggested sweetly.

"Possible, but not likely. You have more of a reason to lie than he does."

She glared at him coldly.

"And what would you do with this information, hmm?" she asked.

"At the moment, nothing," Ashaad conceded. "I require more of it, you see."

"And how do you plan to get it?"

"You will tell me."

"I should think not," she laughed.

"You forget yourself, apostate. You no longer have the Qunari to watch over you."

That was a threat, Amell realized. Not the best she'd heard, not the most frightening and somewhat lacking in ingenuity, but definitely a threat. She was at least getting somewhere.

"No, he was a poor body guard, I must admit," she grumbled bitterly.

"He did not focus on the task. He allowed his emotions to override his sense of duty."

Amell gave Ashaad a sly look.

"It happens sometimes," she shrugged.

"Yet the Qunari would have us all believe it does not," Ashaad said darkly.

"You dislike them," Amell observed.

Ashaad only stared at her tensely. If he was angry, he hid it well.

"What have they done to you?" she continued.

"They are Qunari. That is enough to incite dislike," Ashaad only replied. "You should be more mistrustful of them as well."

"Oh, why is that? They live terribly far away from here," Amell replied carefully.

"Yet one day, they will fall upon the southern lands like locusts. You should hope that the Tevinter Imperium will not fall in your lifetime, lest you wish to have your tongue cut out," Ashaad growled.

"They will attack Ferelden?" Amell asked, and part of her worried about this as well. Sten had hinted at this once, though he'd changed the subject quickly. Her apprehension was real as she spoke the question.

"They will attack everything in their path, in the name of their Qun," Ashaad replied. "They will slaughter all who deny it."

"Even you? Even... the Gray Ones?"

"We have the means of fighting back," Ashaad seemed to smile imperceptibly. "They will arrive to these foreign lands and find that we have been waiting for them."

_That's it,_ Amell thought. Ashaad had given away the Tal'Vashoth's plans, albeit only partially. Apparently the fanaticism most Qunari displayed for the Qun was only mirrored by the fanaticism the Tal'Vashoth displayed against the Qunari.

"Waiting for them where, exactly?"

"It is no concern of yours," Ashaad spoke harshly, making it clear that he would not reveal anything more. "If you ally yourself with Qunari, you will fall as well."

"Ally myself with them? Why would I, if they are to attack my homeland?" Amell shrugged.

"The homeland you are fleeing?" Ashaad asked glibly.

"...It is complicated," she could only say.

"Then explain it to me in detail," Ashaad growled low. While Amell was not particularly scared by him anymore, she did appreciate the fact that he was more intimidating now than when he made his rather lackluster threat earlier. However, she did not wish to continue this conversation. She'd gotten all that she could out of Ashaad, she suspected, and all she wanted to do was run back to the ship. That it was now her own turn to talk and possibly reveal something made her uneasy.

"I wouldn't know where to start," Amell demurred. She was starting to run out of patience.

"Allow me to ask, then. Where are you going?"

Amell had no idea what to say. Caught off guard by the question, she could only reply with the truth.

"To Seheron."

"Why?"

She froze. Why? She needed to answer why? _Why, why, why, why... Think, by the Maker, why?_

"I-- it-- it is very far away from Ferelden," she choked out after a few panicked seconds.

"There are other places that are also far from Ferelden," Ashaad pointed out.

"Ah-- yes, there are. Perhaps I should go there-- to those places," Amell said hastily and immediately realized she'd botched it.

Ashaad looked unreadable. He stared at her silently and she stared back, unsure what he would do next. It was only on account of the adrenaline coursing through her veins that she not only saw his hand grab onto the hilt of his sword, but had the presence of mind to react before he drew it.

She called forth frost, freezing him into place for a few valuable moments while she grabbed her staff and launched herself to her feet, knocking over the chair. She stepped to the side and away from the table, trying to gain distance. Lightning arced around her arms and upper body, gathering and springing towards him with a mere motion of the hand.

He fell back, but the frost now gone, he drew his sword and lunged at her. Just as he was about to bring the blade down on her, she swung her staff in a flailing motion. From thin air, conjured stone swirled around the tip of her staff before being launched at great speed towards Ashaad's face. He was pushed back, but his sword grazed her shoulder and blood came gushing out. Her body did not yet process the pain and she took no notice of the wound. She was still in battle.

Ashaad was on his knees, clutching his face with one hand as it bled and his sword with the other. He'd moved too fast for her to gather the full strength of the spell, but she'd seen enough to know that he must have been blinded by the rocks that struck his eyes. He did not scream, however, a fact she found unsettling. Even the darkspawn screamed or hissed or growled when they were injured.

With one last gesture, just as he attempted to rise to his feet again, she brought the butt of her staff down on him. There was a dull crunching sound as the back of his head was caved in. He flopped to the ground, unmoving, blood rapidly pooling under his mutilated head.

Amell panted. Magic still crackled around her, but she calmed herself. Relaxing her stance slightly, she took stock of the situation.

The tavern had gone completely silent. The fight couldn't have lasted even a minute, yet all eyes were turned towards her.

She imagined most of the fights that took place in the tavern would have been brawls. The usually rowdy crowd had no idea how to react to magic.

"Carry on, don't mind me," she said towards the room, using her official Gray Warden commander voice. This did the trick, because everyone slowly went back to what they were doing. A low murmur of conversation started again.

Amell made her way towards the bar, where Pedlham looked at her warily.

"I don't suppose this is going to cause any trouble for you?" she asked him conversationally.

"We-ell, you know, I might need ta be com-pen-sate-ed for my inconvenience-- ah, thank ya, lass," he grinned, catching the coin she threw him. "Ya go an' take care a' that scratch there, ol' Pedlham's gonna get rid a' th' trash."

Amell looked down at her robes. Her left shoulder felt like it was on fire and blood was dripping down her robes, but it did not feel like a very deep wound. She raised her left arm shakily and blood gushed more rapidly, so she quickly strapped the staff to her back and pressed her other hand to the wound.

"Yes, I think I'll go," she agreed.

Looking over her shoulder, she made note of the fact that the tavern's patrons seemed to have fully resumed their drinking and general noise-making. Ashaad's body had disappeared, leaving only a small puddle of blood which a serving wench threw a rag on in a half-hearted attempt to soak it out.

As she carefully made her way back to her room, she heard one last whispered conversation.

"Methinks the fellow woulda preferred ta be turned into a frog."

"A toad."

"A frog, a toad, he woulda been alive then, wouldn't he?"


	7. Chapter 7

Amell had a restless sleep that night. Her wound was healed, but she still felt phantom pains once in awhile; the bed was also unfamiliar and uncomfortable. The next day, as she left the inn, she thought she spotted something suspiciously corpse-like in a ditch. She did not stop to investigate.

The ship was set to sail around noon and Amell arrived at the docks mid-morning, after asking directions from some very helpful merchants. She considered going on board right away, but if she appeared on the ship and Ashaad did not, it would have no doubt signaled foul play to the other Tal'Vashoth. So she waited until minutes before the catwalk was to be raised, hoping this would make it seem as if Ashaad had merely missed the ship. She had no great hope for this plan, but under the circumstances, it was the best she could manage.

As the ship left port, she went to do something she should have from the beginning: talk to the captain and have Sten released.

* * *

"It honestly seemed like a lot of effort to go through for so little information," Amell commented as they walked back to their cabin.

"It is more than I could have gotten out of them," Sten replied.

"Yes, but what is anyone going to make of it?"

"It is the Arishok's place, not my own, to employ this knowledge. My duty was simply to collect it. Or attempt to do so, as the case may be," he added with a sideways glance at Amell and one of his typical almost-smiles. "I am grateful--"

"There is no need," Amell waved her hand awkwardly. "I... I'm just sorry you had to spend this entire time locked up."

"It was necessary, at the time," Sten only said.

"It was-- Sten, did you... get yourself locked up on purpose?" she asked, frowning in thought.

"Do you believe so?" Sten asked in turn.

"Sten! That's horrible! Why would you do something like that?"

They'd reached the cabin and Sten unlocked the door quietly. They were inside before he replied.

"I have learned from you, kadan, that twisted paths may lead to the desired result."

"Yes, well, you do seem to have learned a lot from me, don't you?" she muttered as she shrugged her cloak off and folded it over her arm.

Sten looked at her strangely.

"What?" Amell asked at this.

He strode over to her and raised his hand to her left shoulder. Amell realized that her robes still had a rip there, from Ashaad's sword. Dried brown blood stained the robes, around the hole and down her chest. A long red line of puckered skin could still be visible where the wound had been.

Sten did not know about her marks from the fight until she took her cloak off, but now he brushed a thumb over the closed-up remnants of the wound, sending tingles throughout the over-sensitive flesh.

"Ah, that," Amell smiled weakly. "You know how I am at fighting in close quarters. But it's fine, I healed it-- not as good a job as Wynne would have done-- but it's not even going to scar. Sten?"

He was still looking at her shoulder, face unreadable, oddly delicate fingers tracing the signs of her injury. She was not sure what to make of this, but his hand was very warm and the contact oddly comforting, so it was with great hesitance that Amell finally raised her own hand and placed it over his, putting a stop to his strange probing.

"Sten, what's wrong?" she asked so softly, she surprised even herself.

Sten snapped out of his strange mood and met her eyes.

"Nothing, kadan. You should be more careful," he said and pulled back, his hand slipping away, but leaving lingering heat behind.

He turned around and started quietly unstrapping his armor.

Amell remained rooted on the spot. She touched her cheek and felt the heat of a blush coming on, though she did not know why.

* * *

The next days of the voyage proved uneventful. They did not see the remaining Tal'Vashoth on the ship, but did not go looking for them either. They settled into a routine of sorts, meals in the galley and long hours on the deck.

Amell stalked the deck like a caged animal lately, finally tired of the bland monotony offered by life at sea. She watched the horizon with an almost palpable impatience, despite knowing there was at least another week until they reached their destination.

It was around this time that she acquired a map of Thedas. Sten walked into the cabin one day to find it spread across the desk and Amell leaning over it, watching with a far-away look. He approached her and she turned her head towards him, offering a slight grin.

"Ah, just thinking," she answered his unspoken question. "Do you think we'll get any trouble going through Tevinter?"

"You less than others," Sten replied.

"Why?" she queried, tilting her head curiously. Sten gave her a level look until she realized the answer herself. "Oh... mage. Right. I forgot about that." She shifted awkwardly. "I was given the impression that Tevinter was a... dangerous place."

"There are dangers everywhere. The Tevinter Imperium is run no more poorly than any other of your human nations."

"Hmm." Amell considered this as she traced the Imperial Highway on the map. "Still, I thought the Qunari were at war with the Imperium. Won't your presence raise suspicions?"

"The Imperium wars with all of its neighbors," Sten replied dismissively. "If they were to bar all foreign presence from their territory, they would become bankrupt. And one lone Qunari passing through is hardly an invasion force. If you are concerned by this, we will travel the side roads."

"Side roads?" Her finger came to rest on a small dot marking something to the west of the highway. "Do you think... do you think we might visit Weisshaupt on the way?" She looked at Sten hopefully. "I'd like to see it awake at least once."

"Awake...?" Sten repeated.

"Oh, that's right... I never told you," Amell remarked. "Weisshaupt. That was the dream I was having, when the Sloth Demon imprisoned us. I was at Weisshaupt and the Blight was over. Duncan was there," she added thoughtfully. "He was telling me about about the battle having been won, but I couldn't remember any of it." She finally shook her head. "Never mind, it's just..."

"We will go, if the roads allow," Sten offered.

Amell beamed.

"Thank you," she said, then returned her attention to the map.

That night, she had indistinct dreams of elegant white arches.


	8. Chapter 8

The evening before they were to reach Cumberland, the ship's ultimate destination, Amell started packing. There was not much to pack, exactly: a few lyrium potions, the map, the book she never got to finish, but as she was about to put away her old Circle robes, she unfolded them and gave them a once-over. She'd managed through some effort to wash out the blood (and if there was once thing she'd learned on the road, it was how to deal with bloodstains), but the hole seemed even wider than before. She would have tried her hand at sewing it up, because Wynne had taught her how, but she knew she was not very good at it and she would most likely end up ruining the robes.

She traced the smooth edges of the tear and felt a strange shiver go through her left shoulder. The cut had long since healed, leaving behind only smooth, slightly discolored skin. That was not what was bothering her.

She glanced furtively at Sten, who at that moment was meditating, eyes closed, sitting on the mattress like a wolf ready to pounce at a moment's notice. He looked serene, an odd adjective to use for someone who looked as menacing as he did. Her eyes wandered to his hands and brought back unexpected memories of warmth.

Shaking her head, she shoved the robes into her pack. They weren't very appropriate for the weather, anyway, she decided.

* * *

The weather, as Amell had noticed, was truly different from that of Ferelden.

Ferelden was wet and muddy, all the better to accentuate the cold. Winters were miserable. Springs brought floods more often than not. Summers were marginally drier and lukewarm, but they still managed to feel hot to Fereldans, who were used to much lower temperatures. And autumns were notoriously rainy.

But the further north one went, the warmer it became and Amell had never been quite this far north before. Now she definitely noticed, as she stood on the deck, taking in the alluring outlines of Cumberland in the distance, that the air here had a different quality. It seemed warmer and _softer_, somehow, completely unlike the biting winds of Ferelden.

"I never noticed before how miserable the weather was in Ferelden," she told Sten.

"An astounding oversight on your part," he replied to this.

Amell only grinned.

* * *

The city of Cumberland felt truly foreign to the mage. It was markedly different from Ostwick, which gave the impression of being an over-large fishing village rather than a city. The building were made of chalky-white stone, as smooth as marble. The ground floors of most buildings were completely open on one side, the floor above being held up with wooden pillars bearing beautiful carvings of flowers or vines. Many potted plants seemed to decorate the windows of the houses, as well as bright drapes, striped in unusual nuances.

The people here were... louder, in some ways. They wore layered clothing in clashing colors, as well as bandanas on their heads or around the necks. The slightly richer looking individuals had large wide-brimmed hats with exotic feathers and flowers and most of the women had beads braided in their hair. They were also a great deal more energetic than Fereldans and their conversations seemed to require ample and spasmodic gesturing, punctuated by laughs or other vocalizations.

Amell was beginning to understand what it meant to be a stranger in a strange land. They were barely off the docks and she already felt oddly displaced. She threw Sten a sympathetic glance. He caught it, making her look away awkwardly.

"Is all well, kadan?" he asked.

"It's... everything's fine. You're just very far away from home, I realized," she shrugged.

"As far away as you will be from your own, once we reach Seheron," he pointed out.

"True enough," she smiled. "Where are we going now?... Sten?"

But he was no longer paying her any attention. He was looking over her head at something in the distance, tense and battle-ready. This alarmed her enough that she stepped aside and followed his gaze to...

The Tal'Vashoth. Crowds of sailors and passengers alike parted before the two giants as they stalked towards Sten and her, their stance aggressive (predatory, almost) and while their swords were still sheathed, their hands were gripping the hilts.

The karashok still walked with a slight limp. He had survived his previous battle with Sten only on account of the ship's crew breaking it up. He was clearly of a mind to remedy the situation and recover his pride, injuries be damned.

They stopped mere steps away from Sten, both bristling with barely contained violence, though the older one did a slightly better job with the containing part.

If Amell had to guess, the problem was that they'd figured out Ashaad's fate. She was surprised by the odd timing of this, however. Perhaps they were expecting Ashaad to meet them here, in this port, if he truly did miss the ship? And once here, how did they find out so quickly that Ashaad was beyond contacting anyone at all?

The Tal'Vashoth officer snarled something in Qunari-- and if there was one thing to be said about the language, it was how threatening it really sounded.

Sten replied with something that apparently did nothing to appease them, because now they seemed angrier, and the officer's red eyes drifted to Amell. The mage felt herself being pierced by the searching gaze and took a step back. It wasn't because she was intimidated by him (although, in truth, she _was_), but because in a fight, she found it best to keep her distance from assailants.

The officer said something, probably about her (judging by the direction of his gaze) and probably something accusatory (which would not have been completely untrue; she _did_ kill Ashaad, though saying it was in self-defense would not have cut much water with him, Amell feared).

The conversation was cut short, however, as the karashok, struck by impatience, sprung to attack Sten. The Qunari drew Asala and blocked easily, but this prompted the officer to pick the other available target, that being Amell.

The mage jumped back as the Tal'Vashoth reared up to strike her, brandishing her staff and reflexively calling forth lightning. Sten, sensing her distress, kicked the karashok squarely in the stomach and, in one fluid motion, blocked the officer's advance. Their swords clashed with a resounding sound and Amell concentrated her attention on the karashok, instead.

She attempted to freeze him in place, but either the air was too warm or her spell had been too hastily done, because this only slowed him down. He was still barreling towards Sten, but Amell was quicker than a giant man in heavy armor, so she quickly intercepted him and, with unexpected precision, his the back of his knee with her staff, tripping him to the ground. Not missing a beat she flung lightning and, now that he was riled up and ready to attack her, used a stone fist to send him flying towards the ground once again. He seemed dazed and not in any condition to get up again. Blood was seeping through his armor, not anywhere she'd hit him, so presumably it was a previous injury from his battle with Sten.

As a precaution, Amell stomped on his hand, making him release the sword's hilt, and kicked it away from him before returning her attention to Sten's fight.

Sten and the other Tal'Vashoth seemed equally matched, at least in the sense that they seemed to have sustained an equal number of injuries. Amell sent a well-aimed arcane bolt in the officer's direction, hitting him right between the eyes. She'd once gotten an arcane bolt to the face, too, so she knew he was blinded and disoriented. Sten wasted no time in taking this advantage. The Tal'Vashoth's throat was sliced open; he croaked guturally and fell back, dead.

Amell gave a nervous look to the circle of onlookers which had gathered around the fight. They seemed to shrink away from her attention and soon dispersed.

Sten sheathed his sword. A gash on his forehead sent blood and sweat trickling down his brow and temple, and he wiped his face before it could get in his eyes.

"How come everywhere we go, we seem to get into fights?" Amell asked with a sigh. "I thought that would end once we left Ferelden."

"Then it is fortunate you are not alone on this journey, kadan, because you underestimate the dangers of this world."


	9. Chapter 9

An inn was found soon enough, much cleaner and cheaper than the one in Ostwick. The innkeeper, a small blonde woman with a string of coins hanging around her neck, gave long, wary looks to the blood-splattered Sten, but she accepted payment for two rooms and arranged for hot water to be delivered without Amell even having to ask.

The rooms were identical: large beds with sandy-hued covers, wooden floors covered by threadbare rugs, the colors worn out by time and use, elegant cabinets and shelves, ornate carvings on all of the furniture and semi-circular windows with green shutters. There were bath tubs, as well, hidden behind screens painted with elaborate aquatic scenes, something Amell had never quite seen before.

She left her things by the bed and returned to Sten's room just as a servant (a jittery elf boy, his eyes firmly held towards the ground) arrived carrying a bucket of hot water and some clean rags. The innkeeper had been true to her word. Amell took the elf's burden and sent him away. He bolted down the stairs as if a pack of mabari were on his heels. She shook her head and entered her companion's room.

Sten had removed his armor, revealing a long slash to the side, just above his right hipbone. It was obscured by a bloody shirt and probably already half-healed from the spell Amell had cast right after the battle, but it still frightened her a little to see it. Sten showed no outward sign of discomfort, but then, he was not prone to revealing pain.

Amell sighed. There was no use scolding him for not telling her sooner; she should have guessed he was injured more than he let show when her healing spell had not healed the gash on his forehead as well. Of course, by that point, she'd been almost out of mana, so there was no guarantee she could've done much about it.

"Take your shirt off," she told him, taking one of the rags and soaking it in water.

Sten obeyed without question and she was relieved at this. Had she said the same thing to Zevran, or even Alistair, she would have inevitably received some joke or innuendo in response. It was an odd day indeed, when she was feeling glad that the Qunari had no concept of flirtation.

Turning around again, she took in Sten's form, trying to ignore the vague discomfort she always felt when she saw a man shirtless (and my, hadn't that been a fun day when Zevran had discovered this particular fact about her). She focused her attention on taking stock of his injuries instead of dwelling on anything else. The slash to his side she'd already seen, but he also had a nasty injury to his shoulder, which looked more deep than wide. His forehead was also still bleeding, as head injuries were always profuse and stubborn bleeders.

She did not have as much practice at healing as Wynne did. Were she to live as long as Wynne (which was not likely, given her... condition), she would not become as skilled a healer as the elder mage. But she was still a capable healer, if nothing else, and sometimes, after long battles when Wynne had gotten as battered as all the rest and she still stubbornly refused to care for herself before others, it had been Amell's duty to drag the old woman off to the side and tend to her. She would learn much from these occasions, as Wynne gave advice and gentle instructions once she relented to being taken care of.

Swallowing a knot in her throat (she missed Wynne dearly, she realized, even though it had been less than a month since her departure), Amell approached Sten. The Qunari looked down at her impassively.

"Sit down," she gestured towards the bed. He did so and kneeled down by him, carefully dabbing at the wound on his side with the wet rag. There was a minute flinch, almost imperceptible, but very telling in someone as stoic as Sten.

Healing spells could be generally beneficial to anyone with injuries, but they were most effective when concentrated on one injury at a time. It also helped if she knew how serious a wound was.

As soon as it was cleaned, Amell placed her hand over the slash and sent gentle waved of healing energy into it. Flesh knitted back together completely, leaving only dry blood behind. She then rose to her feet (and this actually placed her height nearly level with Sten's, a novel position, to be sure) and focused her attention on his shoulder. The wound was graver than anticipated and she had to repeat the spell before it was reduced to a smaller, half-healed scab.

"That one was very deep. Why didn't you tell me about it right away? It couldn't have been easy to use your arm," she said with a frown, carefully wiping away the remaining blood with the reddened rag.

"It is fine now," Sten rumbled.

Amell raised her gaze to him, intent on telling him that _that wasn't the point_, but she paused as she saw the gash on his forehead.

"Oh, I almost forgot about this," she said and raised her hand to the injury.

"It is not serious enough for your attention," Sten replied and made a move to turn his head away.

But she placed one hand against his cheek to keep him still and another touched delicate fingers to his forehead, already sending magic into the flesh, healing it completely. She felt the fraying edges of strain as she finished, her mana, not completely recovered from the fight, now spent in full.

"There, all gone," she smiled slightly. She inspected the thin line of blood that remained behind, but as far as she could discern, there was no injury left.

That was when her eyes drifted lower and met Sten's and she realized how close they were standing. Somehow, her hands had fallen to his shoulders and she could feel the warmth of his skin and the firmness of his muscles under her palms, but this was all secondary to the sharp sensation of proximity, to the simultaneous close and distant feel of body heat and to his violet eyes looking into hers, to the expression of mild surprise on his face that probably mirrored her own.

Neither moved away, an almost preternatural stillness descending upon them. It was as if the initial moment when they could do so-- when they could awkwardly pull away from each other, mindful of personal space and propriety-- had passed and released them, and now they were in completely new territory, past a line neither had acknowledged existed until now.

It was tense and frightening, but strangely compelling, this new closeness. Amell could feel something inside her twisting sharply-- almost like nervousness, but oddly pleasant-- and her head feeling lighter, though perhaps that was the effect of mana depletion. It felt as if there was something more she was supposed to be doing, or maybe that Sten was supposed to, but he was only sitting there, as paralyzed as she was, which struck her as odd. Sten was supposed to keep his wits about him, she thought dimly as her hand rose to his cheek again, slowly and hesitantly, while her eyes did not break contact with his. And then _his_ hand rose to her waist and settled on her hip and this almost gave her enough courage to lean in--

When a knock on the door sounded.

Amell flinched and took a step back, feeling once again like a little girl caught by the Templars doing something forbidden, except more embarrassed than terrified.

Sten looked momentarily startled himself, but his face settled back into an unreadable masque and his eyes fell to the floor.

"That..." Amell cleared her throat, not realizing how dry her mouth was, "That must be the water," she said at last and hurried towards the door.

She opened it rather abruptly, startling the young elven servant, and she passed by him without a glance.

Once she was in her room, she leaned heavily against the door and breathed out shakily.

Mana depletion, she decided. She was acting odd from mana depletion. That must have been it. Because she was not even going to _consider_ any other explanation.

---

Author's note: updates might slow down as exams are approaching. Sorry.


	10. Chapter 10

Damnable woman.

That was all Sten could think, over and over, as he scrubbed himself clean of blood.

It was not even any one thing she did that bothered him, really. It was everything. Perhaps it was because he'd spent so much time with her lately, together at sea, but he'd started noticing things about her that he never really noticed before. The way her hair fell on her shoulders. The delicate lines of her neck. The way her robes seemed to emphasize her every curb. Until now, he did not dwell too much on these observations. He noticed things. It was his job. It was no real surprised that, due to the monotony of the ship, he'd started observing his companion more closely.

But there had been a small niggle of uncertainty in the back of his mind, a distant question of why he was seeing the things he was. And he could ignore it and push it aside. Concentrate on other, more immediate things.

Until she _touched_ him.

That, in itself, was nothing new. They did touch, occasionally, albeit through cloth and armor and that _one time_ when it occurred to him that he hadn't warned her about the Tal'Vashoth occasionally poisoning their blades and he found himself uncharacteristically alarmed at the thought that she could have died from his carelessness... But she was fine and her shoulder showed no signs of poison (or perhaps her healing spell had taken care of it, he did not know) and when she placed her hand over his and asked what was wrong, in that particular voice, it struck him that he had taken liberties he shouldn't have.

This time, it was different. It shouldn't have been, really, because she was merely healing him. She'd done it before, long ago, before Wynne joined them, though back then she'd been rather worse at it and everyone tended to treat their own wounds.

Now, however, feeling her fingers over his skin, cold and soft, firm and gentle, it had all inspired a terrible uncertainty in him. It was unbecoming for an officer of the Beresaad to feel such thing. His duty should always be readily apparent.

But yes, uncertainty was definitely what he'd felt when she'd been near. When she'd touched his face, when she'd looked at him the way she did, he was torn between the knowledge that he should push her away and the immediate need to pull her closer, so close that he could feel her heartbeat and drown in her scent. It was dizzying, to realize so suddenly that she was female and within his reach, closer (in more ways than one) than any woman had gotten to him in years. It would have been easier if he could simply relent to the instinct to reach out and _possess her_, to quench this immediate need for her. But they were interrupted and it all came rushing back, and he remembered that she was not just a woman, but the Warden, and his kadan, and foreign and a mage and countless other things that would have made such a decision ill-advised.

It still stung, on some deeper level, the manner in which she'd fled the room. But it _shouldn't_, Sten decided. It had been the rational reaction. He could not fault her for it.

Sten sighed, exasperated.

Damnable woman.

* * *

Amell left the inn. She tried to tell herself that she was not running away, that she was not avoiding Sten and that she most definitely had done nothing to warrant running away or hiding, but it was a mission made all the more difficult by the relief she felt as she distanced herself from the inn. She was already outside by the time she remembered to look back and memorize the name and general location of the inn, because she had no real idea where she was going.

She had a general plan of finding a tailor or a clothier, someone who could fix her ruined robes. She'd asked the innkeeper about such a shop, but she'd been so preoccupied, that she hadn't really been paying attention to the directions the woman gave her.

She was still preoccupied, if she were to be completely honest about it. She dreaded having to return and face Sten again. She was so wrapped up in these concerns, in fact, that she almost passed a tailor's shop without noticing it.

Amell doubled back. The sign next to the door advertised "The Tailor Ghenswip, Purveyor of Fine Clothes, Any Style, Any Size, Any Price". This sign seemed overly bombastic to Amell, as in Ferelden, such a shop would have a discreet placard reading only "Tailor's" and a drawing next to it, to help those less literate discern the purpose of the store. This just seemed like overreaching.

She entered anyway, since there was no use questioning the strange habits of this place. The interior surprised her just a little. Far from the enclosed, dark spaces lit by flickering torches that she'd come to associate with Fereldan stores, this one had wide open window providing ample sunshine, which reflected on the white chalky walls to fill every part of the building with seemingly endless light. The wares were not hidden behind counters, away from the grubby hands of customers, but displayed along the walls, folded neatly on shelves. A dour-looking elven woman was folding some dresses while two chatty human women, probably customers, were busily grabbing other clothes from the shelves, unfolding them and loudly discussing the merits and price of each piece.

There was a counter, tucked away in a corner, where an impassive man watched the room like a king would watch his domain. Amell pegged him for the owner right away. He was wearing an expensive-looking blue shirt with its sleeves rolled up, as if its value was a secondary concern to him. He was trying to appear aloof while another, younger, man was talking, apparently trying to convince him of something.

As she approached, the younger man drew her attention. He was dressed in a yellow shirt (and if that shirt had started this color or if it had become it over time, she could not tell), a light blue vest and a pair of inexplicably purple trousers. (He had a sturdy pair of boots, however, and Amell thoroughly approved of that.) His hair was a common shade of brown, but it was styled in a long braid, coming down to the middle of his back. It was not until she saw the lute in his hand, however, that Amell realized he must have been a minstrel of some sort. (She also felt a momentary pang at the thought of Leliana and wondered how her contemplation of the Urn was going.)

As she got closer, she began to hear his words, as well, marked by a hard-to-place accent.

"...you will get your merchandise's worth, I grant you, even more so! Why, I would not be surprised if by the end, it is you who will bestow payment upon _me_--"

"Look, this isn't negotiable," the owner interrupted, looking quite put-upon. "I can't make any exception for you. Next thing, I'll have other customers wanting to pay me in song, or in poetry, or in prose, or in dirty limericks, or what-have-you. We only accept money here. Good, solid coin, to put a roof over the head and bread on the table."

Amell had to choke back a laugh when she realized the minstrel was attempting to pay his bill with a musical number.

"Ah," the young man continued, putting a hand to his chest dramatically, "but what is shelter and food for the body, if the soul starves? Am I not right about this, fair maiden?" he asked, turned to Amell with a dramatic swoop. His green eyes were twinkling merrily and he had a charming smile. Amell might have almost been taken in, had she not met some equally charming individuals along her travels.

"Oy, don't harass paying customers!" the owner grumbled, shooting a glare at the minstrel. "How can I help you, ma'am?" He looked at her with an expression that made it clear what he was thinking: _You _are_ going to pay in actual money, yes?_

"Hmm, well, I have these robes that need mending," she started, taking the knapsack off her shoulder and pulling her robes out.

"Ah, the lady is Fereldan!" the minstrel exclaimed, taking her hand and making a show of kissing it. "I, too, have visited your lovely lands and have found nothing more refreshing than your rolling green hills upon a late spring morning," he continued, grinning at her cheekily.

The owner, who'd been inspecting the robes, shot another look at the minstrel.

"Yes, well, these can be fixed well enough," he addressed Amell, "but if you're going north, they won't be terribly appropriate for the weather. Perhaps I could interest you in something lighter?"

"I suppose," Amell said, after some hesitation. Her robes were very comfortable and she was used to them, but they were made for the harsh cold of Ferelden and the Tower.

"Here we go, how about this?" he pulled up a set of lovely green robes from under the counter.

Amell had to squelch her immediate delight at the sight of the fabric.

"It looks very nice," she said evenly, running her fingers over the material. "Is it flame retardant?"

"Is it... uh..." The owner recovered quickly. "Well, I wouldn't run into any burning buildings, at any rate."

"What about frost?" she continued.

"What about it?"

"Does the material hold up to frost?"

"...It's not made for that kind of weather," the owner blinked, confused by this line of questioning.

Amell pursed her lips and looked down at the robes again.

"It doesn't have any metal wiring, I hope," she muttered.

"Look, is this a joke?" the owner frowned at her disapprovingly. "Because I won't stand for being ridiculed!"

The minstrel burst into musical peals of laughter.

"Not a joke, good man! The lady is a mage!" And he punctuated this proclamation with a few notes on his lute.

Amell had to grin at the minstrel's antics. Never before had this revelation been met with such enthusiasm, unless it was the other kind, the one involving swords and accusations.

The owner seemed to wilt away from Amell, however, and she suppressed a sigh.

"Look, just fix my robes. I'm sure I'll still have a use for them," she said as gently as she could, using her 'I'm a good little mage, I promise' voice.

"Ah, yes, of course. It... it will cost eight silvers in all," he managed to say.

"I don't suppose I could pay you in dirty limericks?" she asked with a lopsided grin, as she searched her pouch for the coins. "A friend taught me some really good ones."

The minstrel chortled at the owner's expression.

"Oh, and I'll be paying his expenses as well," she gestured towards the younger man. At his questioning look, she added, "Consider it your reward for figuring out what I am."

He gave a sweeping bow at this and Amell could almost believe he was completely serious.


	11. Chapter 11

He was following her.

At first, Amell thought they were merely walking in the same direction, but the minstrel was definitely following her.

"So this friend of yours, who taught you dirty limericks," he asked cheerily, "was he a mage as well?"

"No," Amell replied curtly, but added as an afterthought, "A dwarf."

"Ah, yes, dwarves do excel at such things," he grinned. "And where does a mage meet a dwarf?"

"Orzammar," Amell answered.

"Obviously," he chuckled.

"Look, are you just going to follow me until I tell you my life story?" she asked, exasperated.

"I find that persistence often pays," he shrugged. "And I do sense your life story is interesting, to say the least."

"Not as interesting as yours, I'd imagine."

"Does the lady truly think so?" he chuckled, amused. "Ah, but I am only a humble musician. Valerion, they call me, among other, worse things." He bowed dramatically in the middle of the street.

"Oh. I... My name is Corinne Amell. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Valerion grinned triumphantly.

* * *

It was hours later when Sten ventured out of his room and approached the door to Amell's. Knocking elicited no response, however, so he went to search for her downstairs, where he ran across the innkeeper.

"Oh, it's you," the blonde woman said, quite unnecessarily, upon seeing him. "Your friend is back from her errand. She's in the tavern. Seems to have brought entertainment, as well."

The fact that Amell had left at all was news to him, but not nearly as surprising as the last part. He wondered what entertainment the innkeeper could have possibly meant.

He found out as soon as he arrived in the tavern. A gaudily-dressed man was playing the lute and singing, surrounded by overly-intoxicated patrons who accompanied him, off-key to various degrees.

Amell was tucked away at a corner table, watching the ridiculous display with a far-away look on her face. She was deep in thought, though how she could think in this terrible din was a mystery to Sten. He could suspect what preoccupied her mind, however, and he had to begrudgingly admit at least partial responsibility for it.

He was nearly next to her by the time she saw him approach and she flinched out of her reverie. He sat at the table, tactfully ignoring the glance she threw around, as if she were assessing exit strategies. There was a goblet of wine in front of her, half-finished. Oghren sometimes tried to coax her into trying ale, but she seemed to have caught the taste of wine from Wynne, instead.

"I am given to understand you are responsible for this spectacle," he said, gesturing towards the minstrel.

She seemed thrown, for a second.

"I... yes," she grinned uneasily. "He followed me here."

"Followed you here?" Sten repeated skeptically.

"Like a puppy," she confirmed, relaxing marginally.

"And I am sure you did nothing to encourage him."

"No! Well, a bit... I might have paid his tailor bill."

"And I am sure you had a valid reason for doing this."

"Yes! He was... he... he was endearing, I suppose," she trailed off weakly, looking down at the table.

Sten glared at the minstrel.

"What does he want of you?" he asked, his eyes still on Valerion. His song seemed to have come at a close, finally, and people were throwing him coins.

"Nothing, I suppose. He says he finds me interesting." She gave a low chuckle at this.

Sten looked back at Amell. She was holding the vessel of wine, staring deep into the dark red depths of the liquid.

"Do you believe this?" Sten asked.

"Why, are you feeling jealous?" she asked absently, still staring into the wine, and it was only after the words were out that she realized it was entirely the wrong thing to say after the events of the day, even as a joke.

Sten stiffened and she looked up at him, horrified, about to apologize, but for the second time that day, there came an interruption.

"M'lady, friend of yours?" came Valerion's sing-song voice as he casually leaned his elbow on the backrest of Amell's chair.

"Y-yes." She looked from Valerion to Sten, struck by indecision. "I have to go," she managed to add, before she fled the room. Again.

Sten would have followed her, even though he was not sure what he would do or say once he caught up with her, but his attention was caught by Valerion, who seemed entirely too taken with Amell's retreating form.

"Was it something I said?" the minstrel wondered aloud, as he sat in the newly-vacant seat and gave Sten a winning smile. Sten was not impressed.

"Yes," the Qunari replied, though it would have been more accurate to claim that it was something _she_ said that put Amell on the run.

"Hmm. Then I must make amends to her later," Valerion said, his grin turning mischievous.

"You will keep away from her," Sten said, low and serious. A threat was implicit in his tone of voice.

"How interesting," Valerion remarked unexpectedly, leaning back and seeming to consider the Qunari in a new light.

Sten did not like the way the minstrel was eying him.

"Don't worry," the young man laughed suddenly. "Unlike most other minstrels, I have more sense than to steal away anyone's woman."

Sten suffered a a slight, infinitesimal moment of conflicting emotions before he could muster an appropriate response.

"She is not my woman," he said neutrally. "I have no claim on her."

"No?" Valerion cocked his head curiously, still looking smugly amused.

He looked down at the goblet Amell had left behind. Slowly, almost reverently, he raised the container, watching it with quite some interest.

"Do you think," Valerion started, as if considering a serious problem, "if I were to drink of the same goblet, I would learn the taste of her lips?"

In a split second, Sten was on his feet. In the subsequent second, Valerion was on the ground, his shirt soaked with wine.

In truth, Sten had done nothing other than rise from his chair, but Valerion had apparently been expecting something completely different, because the musician tried to scramble away so fast, he fell backwards, chair and all.

After a brief moment in which Sten gave Valerion a look of contempt and Valerion looked utterly surprised to still be alive, the Qunari said only "I will leave you to your foolishness," and departed.

A few moments later, under the curious gazes of tavern patrons, Valerion started laughing merrily.

* * *

That night was difficult, for Amell.

The problem, for once, were not nightmares. She'd grown accustomed to terrifying apparitions in her sleep and she could usually scrounge a few hours of sleep even on the worst nights.

No, the problem was that her dreams were disturbing in completely different ways tonight. Particularly because Sten featured heavily in them.

Amell rolled on her stomach and muffled a shriek of frustration into the pillow. She blamed the heat. Nights in Cumberland were balmier than she was used to and unfortunately, this only made it easier for her unconscious mind to conjure vivid dreams of Sten's warm body moving above her and inside--

No. No, no, no, she was not going to dwell on this. She was not even going to think about those embarrassing dreams ever again after tonight. She was going to take a cold bath and go back to sleep and hopefully by morning, her mind will have ceased to play such strange tricks on her.


	12. Chapter 12

Morning came, as it was wont to do. Amell dressed and groomed herself, preparing for the day. Bright sunlight was streaming in through the windows, putting the mage in an unusually good mood.

She'd almost forgotten about her predicament the evening before, at least until she finally exited the room and ran into Sten in the hallway.

The Qunari seemed to have been on his way to her room, because the stairs were in the opposite direction, and there was a brief moment in which they froze in place, looking quite surprised to see each other. Then, tactfully, Sten cleared his throat.

"I was about to inform you that we may resupply today and be on our way tomorrow," he said.

Amell nearly sighed in relief. At least her companion seemed impervious to awkwardness.

"Thank you," she nodded, her eyes finding their way to the nice, safe floorboards.

"We will be joining a caravan," he added.

"A caravan?" Amell echoed.

"It would be unwise to travel by ourselves, even on major roads."

"Of course," she agreed.

"Would you like me to step aside now?"

"...What?" She raised her head, uncertain. Sten looked as grave as always.

"So that you may flee. I have noticed it has become a habit lately," he clarified.

Amell couldn't help cracking a smile at that, but she hid it behind a hand, blushing.

"Oh, I'm-- I'm sorry about that, Sten. I... I didn't mean... Yesterday was..." _Odd_, she wanted to say.

"We will put yesterday behind us and not dwell on it any longer," Sten spoke with great finality.

Amell nodded numbly. She felt a surge of relief, tinged with just a little disappointment, which she hastily crushed.

"Now, will you be joining me for breakfast?" Sten asked, once that was out of the way.

"Oh..." She considered for a moment. "No, I have some other things to do. You go ahead," she motioned, as she herself turned to lock the door.

Sten nodded and turned towards the stairs. He was almost at the first step when another came climbing them; Valerion, with his lute strapped to his back and a cheeky grin on his face.

"Ah, good morning!" the minstrel greeted cheerily. "Is your fair companion about?"

Sten looked down on him with a frown. Coming from him, this was enough to make the minstrel take a step back and raise his hands appeasingly.

"Now, now, my good man, I promise this will be the last time I will bother the lady."

Silently, still looking at the minstrel with undisguised disapproval, Sten moved aside, allowing Valerion to pass. The young man's relief was almost palpable, but Sten still watched him as he approached Amell.

"Ah, m'lady, so glad to have caught you," Valerion bowed quickly, looking quite calm for someone being watched so attentively by a giant.

"Valerion?" Amell blinked. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all," the minstrel laughed.

In one swift gesture, he produced two silver coins. Amell stared at the silver, but made no move to take it, so Valerion gently took her hand, spread open her palm and placed the coins in it. There was a distant, thunderous sound as Sten growled at this physical contact, but Valerion quite aptly ignored it.

"I have merely come to pay my debt to you," he explained with a wink. "Thank you."

"Oh!" Amell realized suddenly. "For the tailor! Right. You're welcome."

"And one more thing..."

Bringing his lips to her ear, he whispered a few words. This sent a blush spreading across Amell's face.

"Wh-what?!" she squeaked in surprise after a few seconds, flinching back.

Valerion laughed and bowed again, then quite brazenly made his way past Sten and disappeared down the stairs.

"What did he say to you?" Sten growled, turning to Amell.

The mage seemed to blush harder.

"N-nothing, never mind," she said, her voice a higher pitch than normal. "It was nothing."

Sten frowned. His dislike for Valerion deepened.

* * *

The Cumberland market district was not terribly different from that of Denerim. It was loud and crowded and just a little less organized, but the only major difference seemed to be the fine white dust that perpetually hung in the air.

Amell was, nonetheless, delighted with her surroundings. As Sten haggled for goods, his companion flitted from stall to stall, curious about everything. She occasionally escaped his sight, when he was busy going through a vendor's wares or haggling, but she always reappeared by his side.

The last time, she was eating a sort of red fruit which he hadn't seen her purchase.

"I like this place," she remarked airily, staring into the distance.

"It is a marketplace, no different than Denerim's," Sten responded.

"But it _is_ different."

"If you insist."

She threw him a glance at this reluctant acceptance of her words, but did not pursue the matter. Instead, she changed the subject unexpectedly.

"Sten, you don't trust Valerion, do you?" she asked quite suddenly.

"I do not," he replied, completely honest.

"Why not?" She tilted her head curiously.

"Why this sudden interest in my motivations? I dislike him. I should not be forced to explain my every action." The words came out harsher than Sten intended, but Amell did not seem cowed.

"Hm," she only said, taking another bite out of her fruit while watching him with great interest.

Sten looked away. He concluded that the minstrel had been a bad influence on Amell.

"The question should be why _you_ trust him," he groused after a while.

"I'm a very trusting person," she replied lightly.

"And I am a mistrustful person. You know this, yet you still ask."

"He's harmless, you know."

"Perhaps he is not a warrior, but he is far from harmless," Sten corrected.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"It... matters little now."

"It matters to _me_."

"Why?"

"Why wouldn't it? You're my friend. I care about your opinion."

Sten's expression softened slightly.

"I suppose that is an acceptable reason," he mused.

"Then you'll tell me?"

"No."

Amell laughed.

"I knew you'd say that," she told him with a lopsided grin.


	13. Chapter 13

The sun was a hair's breadth under the horizon when Sten and Amell arrived at the caravan's rallying point. Amell moved sluggishly, still sleepy. Her traveling cloak was pulled around her as she was imagining it was a blanket and that she was still in bed.

The rallying point was little more than a meadow on the outskirts of Cumberland. Wagons were already gathered there, pulled by docile-looking oxen. People were milling around in organized chaos, loading the wagons with their baggage, and they were a diverse group, to say the least. There were humans, elves and even several dwarves, but they seemed to come from every stratum of society; poor families in search of better lives, orphans and widows, craftsmen, traders, possibly even criminals, by the looks of some, all united only by a common destination (or at least a general direction).

"I think we're early," Amell grumbled unhappily.

"We aren't," Sten replied.

A few moments later, someone whistled, a prolonged and resounding sound that must have come from long practice and almost blew Amell's eardrums out.

The origin of this sound was a dour-looking man standing on top of a wagon driver's seat. He was unshaven, scruffily dressed and red-eyed, like he'd spent the past few days on a drinking binge and was now forced to finally come to work and by the Maker, he was going to resent everyone for it. But most strangely, perhaps, was his misshapen hat, which was brown and looked like nothing much at all; in fact, the only indication it was a hat at all was the fact that he was wearing it on his head.

"A'ight, you lot, I hope you're packed, 'cause we're leaving in five minutes," he groused unhappily.

Protests started rising from the people gathered there. The man was unmoved.

"Yeah, yeah, all you people do is bitch. You don't like my terms, you can stay behind. But I call the shots here and I say we leave in five minutes."

With that, he hopped down from his perch and disappeared behind a wagon, probably to where his bottle of spirits was hidden.

"Who was _that_?" Amell asked.

"That was Drust, the leader of this caravan," Sten explained.

"He seems a bit... grouchy."

"I hadn't noticed."

"Because you're such a ray of sunshine yourself," she grinned slightly.

"I take it you are being facetious, kadan," he said, looking at her utterly serious.

"Mm. Very perceptive." The grin disappeared and she seemed to hesitate. Sten picked up on this.

"Were you going to say something?" he asked gently.

"No, just... you haven't called me that for days. Kadan. I rather missed the sound of it." And she looked up at him so earnest and sweet, that Sten was thrown for a moment. He realized that that assessment was right. He hadn't, ever since she healed him at the inn.

He wanted to explain, or at least to try, but before he could speak a word, they were interrupted.

"'Scuse me," a shaky voice calls from the side. The originator was a young woman with a strikingly white head covering. Wisps of black hair escaped the scarf and fell over her forehead and her skin had an olive complexion, but her eyes were an almost luminous blue. Her hand were calloused and rough and they were currently busy wringing the material of her brown dress nervously. "'Scuse me, but if you have baggage, our wagon's not very full yet. You could come and... umm... I mean, there's space, if you don't want to carry it all the way..."

She trailed off, looking to the ground.

"Thank you," Amell said cheerily. "Lead the way."

The woman nodded silently and motioned for them to follow.

"She's nice," Amell whispered towards Sten.

"She desires our protection. It is the only reason she is doing us such a favor," Sten said impassably.

"I still think she's nice," Amell muttered rebelliously.

"As you wish."

Amell glanced at him, but there were still times when could not tell if Sten was being serious or not.

* * *

The woman's name was Sorrel. She was accompanied by her much younger brother, Dyson, a lad that could not have been older than thirteen, and they were apparently off to seek their fortune in Nevarra, where they'd heard there was a shortage of working hands on the orchards.

Amell discovered all this while sitting next to her in the driver's seat. Despite her initial shyness, the woman seemed starved for company and talked almost without pause. Amell, for her part, was content not to have to walk, even though the caravan was quite slow-paced, but the constant chatter prevented her from dozing off. Not that she minded much; Sorrel was a fount of knowledge, apparently.

"Drust travels this route constantly, back and forth. He makes a great deal of money out of it," Sorrel had explained. "He's a caravan leader by profession. There aren't many left who uphold the old traditions, anymore, and I suppose he isn't much, either. He's a drunk and he overcharges even the poorest travelers. But he has experience in these matters. He's never lost a wagon, you know." That last remark was tinged with admiration. "It cost us a lot to be able to come along with the caravan," she added in a lower tone of voice.

"Why are you leaving Cumberland?" Amell asked, taking advantage of the slight lull in conversation.

A flash of panic passed over Sorrel's face.

"No reason, really. It was time to move on."

"Are you originally from Cumberland?" Amell queried, suddenly made curious.

"You talk a great deal, don't you?" Sorrel snapped.

Amell blinked, but did not point out that it had been Sorrel doing most of the talking up until now. She did not prod any further, either. She knew how it was to be forced to leave one's home under less than fortunate circumstances.

There was a tense silence for a while, but Sorrel could not resist for long.

"Have you ever been on a caravan?" the woman asked sedately.

"No."

"Then you don't know about the celebration," she concluded.

"No, I most definitely don't know about any celebration," Amell confirmed.

"Well, here's how it goes," Sorrel started explaining cheerfully. "After the first day of travel, if no harm befalls the caravan, after we set camp, we drink mead and give thanks to Abeona."

"...Abeona?"

"The patron spirit of roads, protector of travelers. Do you not know of patron spirits where you come from?" Sorrel asked, puzzled.

"I'm from Ferelden and I was... raised Andrastian," Amell explained, trying not to sound bitter about it. She'd never been religiously inclined, especially when said religion was used as little more than a vehicle for guilt, but the teachings of the Chantry were very familiar to her and hard to forget.

"Oh, we're good Andrastians as well, miss. But around these parts, we also believe in spirits."

"I'm not saying spirits don't exist," Amell shrugged. "Far from it. But they stay in the Fade, for the most part. It's unusual for them to take an interest in things on this side of the Veil."

"I don't believe that," Sorrel shook her head. "I think-- I think there are demons in the Fade, and they're bad, but there are also spirits, good spirits that try to help mortals."

It seemed like an overly simplistic belief to Amell, but then, there was Wynne's case. And while with Wynne it was an exception rather than a rule, it was still possible that such beliefs as Sorrel's rose from similar exceptions. How many such incidents would it have taken for faith to find its roots? Two? Three? Amell was in no position to correct Sorrel, especially since she lacked all the facts. But it made for an interesting research topic and the mage made note of it for the future.

"So, you were saying something about a celebration," Amell reminded.

"Ah, yes." Sorrel grinned. "On the first night, we honor Abeona. We sing, we dance, we drink, until midnight. Then we sacrifice three white rabbits and three white doves to her."

"And?"

"And that's it. We go to sleep and prepare for another day on the road, confident in her protection," Sorrel shrugged.

"What an interesting custom," Amell remarked.

"You have nothing similar where you come from?"

"If we did, I imagine the Chantry would put a swift stop to it," Amell mused. It sounded maybe a bit too close to blood magic, even though no mages were involved, from the sound of it.

"The Chantry around these parts tried once to stop this 'spirit worship', as they called it. They were not met with much success, however. Now they mostly ignore it."

"I imagine it's an old tradition?"

"Since before the Chantry was even founded, I hear," Sorrel nodded. "A dear tradition, at that."

"And there are many of such spirits?"

"Oh, there are dozens!"

And Sorrel started rattling off a long list of names and attributes and patronages. Amell took it all in with fascination.

---

Author's note: Abeona is based on the Roman goddess of the same name, a protector of departures and arrivals (though occasionally, her sister Adeona protected arrivals), as well as all kinds of human movement (including a child's first steps). The Romans were a practical lot and had gods for literally all aspects of life. In fact, before the collapse of the Roman Empire, their pantheon numbered over 30,000 gods, most of which were taken from the peoples they conquered. They obviously applied the principle of "waste not, want not" to religion.

Incidentally, mythology used to be a hobby of mine.


	14. Chapter 14

The road meandered over soft coastal hills covered in short grass. The caravan went along, unhurried, through the unchanging landscape, until the sun started slipping lower and closer to the line of the horizon and small white clouds started turning a ripe red. It was then that the mundanity of the landscape was broken by a small shape on the edge of the road, perched on top of the hill desolately alone.

The statue of Abeona was time-worn and had probably been part of a much larger edifice, at some point. Now, the edges had been rounded by erosion and its pedestal had been chipped by time, but it was still recognizable as a cloaked woman holding a rabbit, her head lowered and her face devoid of features.

The caravan stopped and started setting camp across the road from Abeona's statue.

Amell approached it, spurred by curiosity. It came almost to the height of her chest, pedestal and all. There was also a stone bowl in front of it, but as she knelt down to inspect it closer, she noticed another, stranger detail. At the base of the statue's pedestal, almost completely overgrown by weeds, there were words inscribed in the stone. She removed some of the greenery to get a better look, but the words were nearly all faded out. The few letters she could make out seemed to indicate the inscription had been in Arcanum, the official language of the old Tevinter Imperium.

Stranger and stranger.

This did make sense, to a point. The Imperium had stretched the entire continent of Thedas, once, and many of their old relics could still be found in places they once mastered. An altar dedicated to a spirit, however, was an odd find indeed. The Tevinter magisters were certainly capable of binding spirits and souls to stone, but to what end, in this specific case?

Unfortunately, if the inscription gave any explanation for this oddity, Amell would have to remain ignorant. There was no way of making it out after all this time.

Sighing, she reached a hand up to the edge of the pedestal in order to pull herself up from her kneeling position, but she retracted her hand rapidly when she felt the familiar ripples of the Veil.

She hadn't noticed it exactly, before, perhaps because it was so faint, but the Veil here was somewhat thinner than in other spots. Not dangerously so, but comparable to how it felt in the laboratories back at the Tower; how it felt in any place where magic was (or had been) performed regularly.

She looked down at the bowl with a frown. There were many disparate pieces of the puzzle here. Tevinter; spirits; blood rituals?

"What're you doing?"

Amell nearly jumped out of her skin at this query, if only because she'd been so focused on the problem at hand.

She got up and turned to see Dyson, Sorrel's little brother, looking back at her with suspicion.

"I was, ah... Just curious," she shrugged. "What do you know about Abeona?"

"Is that a trick question?" the boy scoffed.

"No! No, we just don't worship spirits where I come from."

Dyson stared at Amell for a long moment. He had brown eyes, but far from being warm, they were dark and unfriendly. He bit on his lip, deep in thought, as if expecting Amell's words to be a trap.

"We don't really... worship Abeona, you know," he said after a time. "Not like... not like we pray at the Chantry or to the Maker. We just... we ask her for help and we give her stuff so she'll be friendly to us on our journey. We give her rabbits and birds, because she likes those," he explained haltingly. Both he and his sister seemed to have this odd way of talking.

"I see..." Amell gave one last look to the statue.

It seemed harmless, only stone, smoothed by winds and rain. By the time she looked back, Dyson was gone.

* * *

The transition from day to night turned the sunny pastoral hills surrounding them into indistinct black stretches of darkness, pierced only by the flickering of flames from the campfire and the various lamps hanging from the wagons.

Mead was brought out and passed around, cheerful storytelling quickly turned to singing and someone was playing a flute.

Sten did not see much point to this agitation. But Amell obviously must have, because she was sitting on a crate next to a wagon, barely in the light of the campfire, but observing the revelry nonetheless. She was grinning, though that might have had more to do with the mug of mead in her hands.

He was in the middle of debating his next course of action when her eyes flicked towards him. She caught his gaze and tilted her head to the side, raising her eyebrows; it was a question, if he'd like to join her or not, but the answer was before she even asked.

He walked over to her and acquiesced when she gestured for him to sit next to her, on a neighboring crate.

"Sten, have you been _avoiding_ me today?" she asked lightly, cramming as much incredulity into one word as she could manage.

"You seemed busy," he evaded, unwilling to admit anything.

"Why?" she continued her inquiry, as if he'd replied in the affirmative. "Have I done something?"

"No," he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "The fault is mine," he added in a lower voice. "It... concerns the observation you made this morning."

She looked down at her mug, brow furrowing in thought as she tried to recall their conversation.

"Oh," she breathed, once the answer came to her. "But I didn't mean it as criticism, Sten. You may call me whatever you wish."

Sten remained silent, watching her, considering.

"What?" Amell asked, because she was not sure what was happening or what she'd said wrong.

"We walk a very fine line, kadan," Sten answered cryptically.

"I don't... understand," she said, careful and slow, still unsure.

"We may only become so close, before circumstances will inevitably separate us."

Amell still did not fully understand what he meant, but now she had an inkling. And Sten was watching her expectantly, waiting for her to see things his way and that could have contributed to what she said next, though the actual culprit might have been one too many mugs of mead.

"I almost kissed you-- back at the inn."

He had no visible reaction at first. His face remained unreadable. His eyes betrayed nothing. Then...

"I almost did much more."

And with that, he got up and left.

Amell felt heat spread through her body. Perhaps it was mead or perhaps it was embarrassment, but it was most likely Sten's words, burning tantalizing lost possibilities in her mind.


	15. Chapter 15

As morning came, the caravan was repacked in numb silence, in stark contrast to the celebration the night before. Amell watched this bleary-eyed, sympathetic towards those feeling the after-effects of too much alcohol.

They returned to the road, and the next two days passed uneventfully. It seemed Abeona was pleased by the offering.

To her surprise, Amell discovered that she and Sten did not go back to avoiding each other. It seemed they were instead pretending that nothing had happened, which she suspected was not much of an improvement.

The third day, the road swerved north, into a forest. This put Drust and all of his hired swords on edge; out in the open, as they'd been so far, bandits could not ambush the caravan. The forest, however, offered a seemingly endless number of hidden nooks and crannies, just perfect for concealing not only criminals, but other unexpected dangers.

Amell knew that she and Sten were allowed to join the caravan without pay only on the promise that they would help protect it, so she made a point of keeping an eye out for trouble.

"Does this forest have a name?" she asked Sorrel.

"Don't know. Suppose it does," the woman shrugged. "It doesn't strike me as dangerous, though. Why are you so tense?"

Amell shrugged in turn.

It was nothing like the Brecilian Forest, she reasoned with herself. _That_ one had been markedly different. There'd been a weight in the air, a spiritual tension she'd felt deep in her blood. The Veil was... _odd_ in the Brecilian Forest, threadbare and uneven.

This forest was of a far more harmless variety. The trees were younger and did not give the impression that they were watching Amell, and she also rather doubted they'd be trying to kill her anytime soon. There was more light here and colorful little songbirds flitting from branch to branch. There was the gentle murmur of a stream in the distance, a sweet tinkling sound like laughter. It was almost beautiful here.

But Amell was still apprehensive, despite all this. Things could still go wrong, no matter how pretty the landscape.

By evening, they arrived to a small bridge crossing the stream they'd been hearing. It was here that Drust decided to stop the caravan and set up camp.

"It's terribly cold, isn't it?" Sorrel commented idly.

"Hm? Oh. Yes." Amell pulled her cloak tighter around her.

It wasn't cold, she thought, it was chilly. If it were cold, you could keep it out with blankets and thick clothing, but a chill cut through all that and went straight to your bones. She was reminded of the tombstones they'd occasionally run across while in the Brecilian Forest, of how they seemed to suck in heat and sound like a deep, dark hole.

"I think Dyson might need an extra blanket tonight," Sorrel continued her chatter. "And I best tell him to stay away from the water. He could catch a death of a cold on this weather."

"Death of a cold, yes," Amell repeated absently.

Sorrel narrowed her eyes and gave Amell a sideways look. She could tell when someone wasn't paying attention to her. It was the kind of skill people who talk too much tend to develop.

"Is something wrong?" she asked the mage point-blank.

"Ah, no, nothing's... wrong, exactly," Amell said, choosing her words carefully. "These woods just remind me of... another place."

Which was strange, because for all intents and purposes, this seemed like an aggressively normal forest.

"A bad place?" Sorrel's brows furrowed in worry.

Amell bit back a bitter laugh. Werewolves, spirits, darkspawn, crazy hermits...

"No, just strange, I suppose," Amell shrugged. "Don't mind me."

"You can tell me, you know, if th--" Sorrel cut off abruptly and looked wide-eyed over Amell's shoulder.

Amell sighed and turned around.

"Sten. Is something wrong?" she asked, just as Sorrel mumbled something about finding Dyson and slunk off.

"Everything seems peaceful for now," he answered, in a tone of voice implying he expected enemies to jump out from behind a rock any second now. "Unless you are given cause to think otherwise?"

"No, no. I was just... thinking. Don't--"

"Mind you," he finished her statement. "It is what you always say when something is bothering you."

"Do I?" she wondered. She hadn't realized she was that transparent. "Nothing's _wrong_, Sten. This place just reminds me of the Brecilian Forest. I..."

She missed it, strangely enough. For all that mess with the Dalish and Zathrian and the Lady of the Forest, she missed those few days spent slowly picking their way through the trees. She had a brief, but vivid memory of the sun streaming down through the leaves as Wynne chided Alistair for something; he laughed and then Amell told both of them to be quiet, because she thought that bush over there had looked at her funny (and predictably, this only made Alistair burst into yet louder laughter)...

She hadn't realized it before, how sharply and deeply she missed her friends. This sadness came upon her so quickly, that the forest seemed to be spinning and she knew that couldn't be right, because it wasn't a _magical_ forest, so it had no excuse.

Amell reached out and placed her hand on Sten's arm, steadying herself. The mail was cold beneath her fingers.

"Could you stay close by, for a little while?" she asked, gaze firmly planted to the ground. Obediently, the forest floor stopped spinning, so she chanced a look up.

"I have no other business to attend to," Sten answered.

Amell nodded shakily, not trusting her voice to thank him.

* * *

It was only after Amell was woken by raised voices that she realized she'd fallen asleep, leaning against the wheel of a wagon. She blinked blearily and the campfire came into focus, as well as other details; she was sitting on a blanket and Sten was standing next to her, watching something across the camp.

She unsteadily got to her feet, pulling her cloak tighter around her.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice still husky from sleep.

"It appears a child was lost," Sten answered, then looked at her. "Did they wake you?"

Amell blinked, but didn't answer. Instead her attention was drawn to the angry female voice in the dispute, because it sounded familiar.

"Is that... Sorrel? Sten, is Dyson lost?" She woke up fully in alarm.

"It appears so."

Amell advanced towards the verbal altercation, now worried.

"You promised! You promised we'd be safe!" Sorrel was screaming, fists balled and tears out outrage in her eyes. "You said you had the safest caravan on the route!"

"And I do," Drust grumbled in reply. He stood there with his arms folded, looking unmoved by the woman's plight. "If the boy wandered off on his own, it's his own damn fault. Or maybe yours, for not reining him in."

"You-- you villain!" Sorrel screeched and launched herself at Drust.

Amell promptly jumped in, grabbing Sorrel's arms from behind and pulling her back.

"Sorrel, no! Calm down, you'll get yourself in trouble!" Amell hissed, holding the struggling woman as tightly as she could. For her efforts, she received an elbow to the ribs and a kick to the shin, but she still did not let Sorrel out of her grip. "Tell me what's wrong, Sorrel, I'll help you."

Drust watched this display dispassionately, his expression frozen in a scowl.

Sorrel finally calmed down, by a given definition of calm, because she stopped her violent outburst and instead started crying. Amell gently guided Sorrel as far away as possible from the infuriating man.

Finally, in the dim firelight, Sorrel slumped against a wagon, hiding her face in the crook of her arm. She looked almost as if she were the seeker in a game of hide and seek, if not for the muffled sobs that racked her body.

Amell sighed. She reached up her sleeve, where she always kept a handkerchief (a habit one of her teachers at the Circle had insisted upon, when she'd been a very young apprentice; it was apparently "lady-like" to always have a handkerchief) and, delicately prying Sorrel away from the wagon, she handed the white textile to her. Sorrel blinked wetly before accepting it and wiping her eyes.

"Sorrel, what happened?" Amell asked.

"D-Dyson's gone," Sorrel answered, her lip quivering as if she were ready to burst into another bout of crying.

"What do you mean gone? How long since you've seen him? Have you searched the whole camp for him?" Amell persisted. The whole caravan must have numbered about two dozen wagons, not that Amell had had the opportunity to count them all, and one small boy could easily be lost among so many people, goods and animals.

"He's gone! He's really gone!" Sorrel shook her head. "I haven't seen him since we stopped and I went and asked everyone and nobody's seen him, nobody knows where he is!"

"Alright, calm down," Amell raised her hands in an appeasing gesture. "I will go and look for him, alright? I'll talk to Drust, myself. You just... stay here and calm down."

A flimsy plan, perhaps, but Amell was used to improvisation by now. She turned and nearly ran into Sten.

"Ah, there you are," she remarked, startled that he'd followed her so quietly. "Could you perhaps stay here and keep Sorrel out of trouble?" she asked low, tilting her head in the woman's direction.

"As you wish, kadan," came the reply.

Amell nodded absently and made her way back to Drust.


	16. Chapter 16

Amell herself had never led a caravan, but she imagined it was at the very least just as tiresome and head-bangingly frustrating as leading a small group of travelers intent on stopping a Blight, so she had nothing but sympathy for Drust's position. The one she did not have sympathy for was Drust himself.

She was working herself up in quite a frenzy as she approached the caravan leader. After all, she'd stared down scarier men than him. If properly motivated, she could glower with the best of them. She had a big stick strapped to her back and lightning up her sleeve. Amell really _meant business_.

Which was why all the wind was taken out of her when she stomped over to Drust's wagon and found only a tired, worn-out old man, sitting on a crate, wringing his shapeless hat in his hands and sighing despondently.

He saw her approach and gave her a weary look, but didn't say anything until she walked right up to him and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"I suppose you're here about that Dyson boy," he said, sounding like a man twice his age.

"I am. Sorrel did have a point, you know. You promised safety," Amell pointed out in a clipped tone. She was not that willing to let go of her anger completely.

"And by the Maker, I thought I could deliver," he chuckled humorlessly. "It seems old Drust has been getting _too_ old."

"It seems old Drust has been getting too much to drink, rather," Amell corrected, giving a long and meaningful look to the wine flask hanging from his driver's seat.

Drust smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I probably should have expected this," Drust shrugged.

"Oh?" Amell raised an eyebrow.

"It's happened once before, through this very spot," Drust sighed. "A child gone missing. Little girl, couldn't've been older than five."

"You mean you knew this would happen?" Amell asked, feeling some of her fury coming back.

"Oh, that happened about... hmm... ten years ago, I reckon. We thought it was just a tragic accident, you know. Parents weren't paying attention, the child slipped away, got lost in the woods or fell in the stream and drowned... that kind of thing happens, on occasion," Drust shrugged again.

"You didn't look for her?" the mage balked.

"Sure we did, sure we did," Drust said quickly. "Scoured the woods, we did. One of the women said she saw the girl going upstream, chasing something, but..." He stopped, his brow furrowing in thought.

"But what?"

"But there's only some ruins, upstream. This water here, it springs from under some wall. We poked around the ruins a bit, but we figured she couldn't be there."

"Why not?"

"Well, to be honest, ma'am... they were some mighty creepy ruins," Drust admitted with a grimace. "Didn't feel right, ya know? Couldn't imagine a little kid playin' around those parts."

"So you gave up," Amell concluded.

"Eventually. We stayed an extra day, o' course, searched every stretch of the forest, but it was the autumn route, so nights weren't very forgiving. If the child hadn't been eaten by some wild beast, we figured, she'd surely have been taken by the cold."

"I imagine the parents weren't pleased."

"Oh, no, ma'am. They stayed behind. Said they were going to keep searching."

"Did they ever find her?"

Drust shrugged.

"Never ran across those people ever again. Wouldn't know."

Amell sighed. It seemed she was still the problem-solver of the world.

* * *

Sten awaited, as the hysterical woman gradually stopped crying and restricted herself to merely sitting there, bent over and miserable, sniffling into the handkerchief.

Amell reappeared, looking tired and solemn in the flickering firelight.

"I've talked to Drust. We'll have to search for Dyson tonight. He says he won't delay the caravan," she announced wearily.

"But-- but--" Sorrel stuttered, "But he's just a child! How can he do this?"

"Very easily, it seems," Amell muttered darkly. "Sten," she turned towards the Qunari, "We'll have to hurry. There's a place I want to search first."

Sten nodded gravely. Amell took an oil lamp hanging from the side of a wagon and motioned for him to follow.

"We'll be going upstream," she told him, then explained about the ruins and the other lost child. They were at the edge of camp, alongside the stream, when their path was blocked by an old woman.

"You're looking for the boy, aren't you?" the hag asked, exposing a toothless mouth.

"Yes. I don't suppose you're inclined to help?" Amell asked, not harboring much hope.

"No, no," the woman shook her head, tousled gray hair whipping about. "But you shouldn't either," she said grimly.

"Oh? Why not?" Amell asked, more curious than alarmed.

"He was taken by the fae, m'lady. The fae don't give back what they take as theirs."

Amell raised an eyebrow.

"The fae? Who are the fae?"

"_What_ are the fae, you mean," the woman chuckled darkly. "They're spirits, far as anyone knows. They roam close to old ruins and snatch children when their parents aren't looking and if you go looking for them, they kill you and string your corpse up in the trees as a warning to others."

"What a charming story," Amell deadpanned.

"Ah, you think it's a story now, but if you go poking around in the business of the fae, you'll end up bad, trust my word," the woman warned. "Leave the boy be. There's no getting him back, there's only more death to be had."

"It wouldn't be the first time something's tried to kill me and failed," Amell said and sidestepped the woman, forging ahead into the woods.

* * *

They were far beyond visual range of the camp when Amell paused slightly and looked over her shoulder at Sten.

"What is it, kadan?" he asked, knowing that she wanted to ask something, but couldn't decide if she should.

"Nothing, just... You weren't obligated to follow me on this errand. It's not as if I'm still trying to stop a Blight anymore and I know you dislike it when I go out of my way to help people."

"It is true, I have no obligation towards that woman or her brother, but I would not have let you go alone even if you were to suggest such a thing."

She stopped, the lamp swinging in her hand, and she turned to Sten with a faint smile.

"I know. Thank you, Sten."

"I still do not understand why you insist on helping these strangers. They are not even your countrymen; you owe them nothing," the Qunari added.

Amell looked down, thoughtfully.

"I help them because it's within my power to do so."

"That could be said of many people, but not all are as willing to act on behalf of others as you seem to be," Sten argued.

"Ah, no, I suppose not," she chuckled and resumed walking.

Sten followed, sensing that she was not quite finished talking. Finally, after some ruminating, she continued.

"Do you know what they tell us from the moment we arrive at the Circle Tower?" she asked, rhetorically, judging from her tone of voice. "'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.' It's a phrase every Circle mage knows intimately, because it is repeated to us constantly. It... defines us, even those that resist it. But what even the Chantry loses sight of is the first part, that magic exists to serve. They lock us up, away from anyone we might hurt, but also from anyone we might help. If you are wondering why I do these things... I suppose it's because I was raised to believe it was my obligation to serve and all I lacked before leaving the Tower was the opportunity."

"I understand, then. It is your duty," Sten concluded.

"My duty... yes, I suppose you could call it that," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

"Do you resent the Chantry for all the years you spent languishing in the Tower?"

"I... no!" she stopped in her tracks, surprised by this statement. "Sten, the Tower was my home."

"Yet it was still a prison," he pointed out. "You were not allowed to leave and Templars watched you closely."

"I... suppose I have no great love for the Chantry," she admitted.

"As well you shouldn't," Sten agreed stonily. "They are fools of the greatest order, if they should act in such a contradictory manner towards you."

"...Towards me?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Towards mages," Sten clarified belatedly. "If the Chantry deigned to teach someone their duties towards their people, then it should have also allowed them to perform these duties. One cannot be told of their place in the world, then be barred from occupying it. Such a thing would be nothing short of cruelty."

Amell smiled at this.

"You do realize these are mages you're talking about, yes?" she asked, amused. "Didn't you tell me once mages were less than beasts?"

Sten seems to recoil for a moment, surprised by this (or by himself, perhaps).

"I... well. It appears you have been a bad influence on me, then," he noted with a frown.

"Ah, yes, demons and abomination the lot of us, hmm?" she chuckled and moved to continue walking. But he reached out from behind and grabbed her by the upper arm-- not harshly, but enough to stop her in her tracks-- and as she turned her head to look over her shoulder at him, he lowered his lips to her ear.

"Other mages do not concern me, kadan," he said softly. "Only you."

Amell stood perfectly still, entranced by the feel of his warm breath against the side of her neck.

She could not muster a reply at this, but it did not matter much, because a moment later, he'd released her and advised that they should hurry if they wanted to finish this errand before dawn. Just like that, he'd come close and distanced himself once again before she could even react.

Traveling with this man was torture, Amell thought.


	17. Chapter 17

Vines and moss covered crumbling stone, but even in the dim lamplight, there were some details that stuck out.

"These ruins..." Amell murmured.

"Tevinter," Sten groused. He was tense-- more so than usual.

She reached out and touched the nearest remains of a wall. The Veil was thin here, a sure sign that powerful magic had once been employed. This was unsurprising; one could scarcely find any ruins of Tevinter origins that were not once the site of powerful magic.

There were remnants of walls, but only two chambers could be identified by the foundations they left behind. The stream indeed sprung from the foot of a wall, the tallest still remaining, but nothing much else could be said of it.

Instead, Amell walked to the other side of the ruins, where a lone archway still stood. It was tall, reaching upwards into the foliage, beyond the light of the lamp. But as she moved beneath it and looked up, she could identify a faint turquoise glow. She lowered the lamp and the glow intensified, but became marked by strange striations. She shifted her position to get a better look.

It was a sphere of some sort, certainly a solid object that glowed, because it was suspended by a tangle of twine. She thought it might have been a bird's nest of some sort, but birds most certainly didn't know how to tie knots (unless this foreign land was stranger than she'd anticipated).

"What is it?" Sten asked apprehensively.

"I'm not sure," Amell admitted.

She took another step closer, standing straight under the archway. The strange light was strangely alluring, like a siren's song heard from a great distance--

--and the ground shifted.

Amell jumped in one swift move, expecting to have triggered any manner of trap (fire or spikes or explosions or something completely new and original), but nothing happened. The archway remained still and silent. Then, after a few tense seconds, a horrid grinding noise sounded, like two slabs of stone sliding against each other and just as it became silent again, there was a flash, like green lightning.

Amell blinked and rubbed her eyes.

"Maker's breath, what happened?" she muttered.

"A trap, perhaps," Sten suggested, sounding displeased.

Amell finally regained her sight, only to notice that, taken by surprise by the flash, she'd dropped the lamp on the ground. It was cracked and the light inside had gone out. She had no time to ponder on this, however, because looking up, the formerly empty archway was now filled by a door.

"Terribly elaborate for a trap, though," Amell mused. "Who'd go through this much trouble?"

"Someone who likes playing with their prey," Sten answered.

The door was... not in any way ominous. It was made from some sort of red wood, bathed in the faint glow of the sphere still hanging in the tangle of twine.

She reached out and touched it. The doorknob was an elaborate little iron figurine of a woman with long hair, a bizarre contrast to the plainness of the door itself. She could feel the magic humming in the air and in the wood of the door. It called to her, strangely enough. Perhaps this was what had lured Dyson away from the campsite.

"I do not like this trickery," Sten said warningly.

"It's not Tevinter magic," Amell breathed. "It's not _any_ kind of magic I'm familiar with. It's... odd. It feels very..."

She struggled for words. "Beautiful" came to mind. "Exotic", certainly. "Chaotic", a little. "Wild" seemed to fit somewhat, but that word bore unpleasant memories for Amell, so she pushed it out of her thoughts.

She retracted her hand and took a step back.

"What is wrong?" Sten asked, raising a hand to her shoulder protectively. Amell barely took notice of it.

"Can't you feel it?" she asked, shrinking away from the door while simultaneously wanting to approach it.

"No."

Amell bit her lip.

"It's in my mind, calling me to it."

"Then we should leave at once--"

"No," Amell interrupted. "It's not... compelling me. It simply whispers suggestions. But it might explain what happened to Dyson and that other girl."

"This whole situation seems dangerous," Sten said darkly.

"Of course it is," Amell laughed nervously. "We only ever get in dangerous situations. We never get to go anywhere _nice,_" she added with a mischievous grin. "But I'm curious to see where this takes us."

Before Sten could say anything, she grabbed the doorknob and opened the door.

It swung inwards slowly, soundlessly, revealing not the darkness of the forest that should have been there, but a blue-lit corridor.

"This just gets stranger and stranger, doesn't it?" Amell muttered, peering inside.

"I find that magic gets strangest before it gets deadly," Sten replied, as grim as ever.

But he still followed.

---

Author's note: I hope you all will forgive this short hiatus I took when I tell you exams are almost over. I'm not sure I'll be up to the task of daily updates (and I promise nothing, because I do not want to tempt fate), but I'm working on this fic again. Yay.


	18. Chapter 18

The walls were made of white marble, but there were bas-relief flowers sculpted into it, the stems elegant half-spirals, the petals made out of gemstones in red, yellow, blue or violet. The corridor had no twists or turns, but at regular intervals, there were sets of five steps, going downwards. The ceiling was low enough to block any view of the end of the corridor.

There was also light, although lacking any apparent source. Amell guessed it must have been some spell, because magic hung so densely in the air, that it almost vibrated.

"What do you hope to find here?" Sten asked her.

"I don't know," she confessed. "Answers? Dyson? The fae? I have no idea."

"The caravan will be leaving in the morning."

"I know," she sighed. "We should hurry."

"But we should also remain cautious."

Amell had no time for a reply, because another door came into view. It was identical to the first.

She approached cautiously and listened for any noise, but the only thing she could hear was the trickle of water. Clutching her staff in one hand, she pushed the door open with the other and took a step back.

Nothing happened. There were no footsteps heading towards them. But as she peered inside the room, she still expected the worst.

It was empty. The room was fairly large, a mosaic representing a jungle scene taking up much of the floor. In the opposite end, there was an altar of some sort, crowded with many small statues. Six pillars held up the roof, delicate vines sculpted into them.

Amell advanced into the room, followed closely by Sten. Their steps echoed loudly, lending an added ominous note.

Neither was prepared to conclude the room was empty, quite yet.

"There appears to be no sign of the child," Sten remarked tensely.

"But someone obviously wants us here," Amell said.

"That is correct," a disembodied sing-song voice spoke.

Sten and Amell shifted almost unconsciously into defensive stances.

"Do not be alarmed," the voice continued.

Brilliant flakes of light descended from the ceiling like snowflakes, coalescing into silhouettes. As the light died, they left behind three humanoid figures, resembling no species Amell had ever come across.

Two of them looked almost human and the third almost like an elf, but the emphasis was on _almost_. There were some... niggling differences that unsettled her.

The first one had a plume of iridescent feathers growing out of her head instead of hair and her skin was of an unsettling blue pallor, contrasting oddly with the plain white cotton dress she was wearing. From her back sprouted two bizarre extraneous limbs, like spider legs, but covered in dark blue scales. The second creature, the one closest resembling an elf, had no eyes. Instead, thick black fur grew in a V-shape, starting from the tip of his nose, which on closer inspection, bore a closer resemblance to a beak. The third such creature's jaw seemed to be covered in some sort of ivory, forming a simulacrum of teeth, growing right over the skin. His nails were also closer to claws and he had only four fingers on each hand.

Amell had come across many frightening things in her travels, but never before had she seen such a mockery of nature's laws. She was not scared of them so much as she was unnerved, however. It was a strange feeling, and the closest thing she'd ever experienced to it until now was during a certain week at the Tower when she'd pass the same blackboard with an incorrect formula written on it. She'd had to suppress the urge to correct the formula, because it was an assignment for the younger apprentices to see if they could spot the mistake themselves. Strangely enough, she had the same feeling looking at these three: like they were slightly off and she had to straighten them out until they fit into the fabric of reality again.

"Who are you?" Sten demanded, waking Amell from her reverie.

"I am Dhaonag," the one with feather-hair introduced herself, bowing slightly. Her eyes were black as coal and her smile cold and forced, but her voice sounded surprisingly friendly to Amell's ears. "These are my good friends," she added, gesturing to the human, then the elf. "Gorvin and Hanshal."

"Dhaonag," Amell repeated the exotic name. "What... I mean, what..." she gestured vaguely, trying to find the least offensive way of asking.

"What are we?" Dhaonag asked with a slight smile.

"Well, yes," Amell admitted bluntly, trying to suppress an impolite shudder.

Dhaonag's smile widened, allowing Amell to see that her teeth were just a tad sharper than she first noticed.

"If you wish to find out, we can show you," she offered.

"I... no," Amell shook her head, apprehensive. "No, we're just here looking for a child. We don't have time for anything else. Have you come across a boy named Dyson?"

"You know that we have," Dhaonag replied, her smile disappearing. "It is why you're here, isn't it?"

"Then you have him."

"Have him?" Dhaonag repeated, amused. "You make it sound as if he were a prisoner. We merely offer him a better choice of life."

"I wish to see him, then," Amell said. "If he truly isn't your prisoner."

Dhaonag and Amell held each other's gaze for a long, laden moment. Then, finally, Dhaonag bowed her head with a sardonic smile.

"Very well," she acquiesced.

* * *

They were not taken anywhere, as Amell had expected. Instead, Dhaonag instructed her companions to go and fetch the boy. Why this would have taken two of them, Amell preferred not to speculate.

"I sense you have questions about us," Dhaonag had said, "and I wish to answer them. In private," she added, with a meaningful look to Sten.

"Do you have anything to hide from him?" Amell asked with a side-long glance.

"I simply sense he would not understand," Dhaonag replied without explaining anything at all.

"Clairvoyant, are you?" Amell snorted.

"He is not like you and I," she continued.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You are a mage, yes?"

"Ye-es?"

"And he... is not," Dhaonag said, with poorly-disguised disdain.

"Neither are most people," Amell said, bristling. "That isn't generally considered a fault."

"But being a mage _is_ considered a fault?" Dhaonag perked an eyebrow regally.

"That wasn't what I meant and I dislike it when people twist my words," Amell replied sharply.

"But I am right, am I not? Do they not lock mages in prisons, for the mere crime of their birth?"

Amell opened her mouth to argue, but closed it again. She looked at Sten, who was looking at Dhaonag with suspicion. He turned his gaze to Amell.

"If you wish to discuss with her, it is not my place to stop you, kadan," he spoke.

"I won't be long," she promised.

Dhaonag primly led Amell away, towards the altar in the back of the room. The many statuettes adorning the wall seemed mismatched, as if gathered from different places. They were all stone, but different kinds, different colors and presenting different kinds of erosion.

And curiously, beyond the altar was a small circular pool, filled not with water, but with softly-glowing lyrium. Amell tried not to gape.

"How deep is it?" she asked. The pool itself was no more than three feet across, but even if it were completely shallow, the amount of lyrium it held was still excessive. She tried hard not to think what it might be used for.

"It is deep enough for our purposes," Dhaonag replied evasively.

The fumes of lyrium in the air were making Amell dizzy and slightly euphoric, but she tore her gaze away from the pool and settled it on Dhaonag.

"I was told an interesting story before coming here," the mage said.

"I can imagine," Dhaonag chuckled softly. "That we steal children and tear apart trespassers?"

"That you hang trespassers from trees, actually," Amell corrected. "Then you really are the fae."

"It is what some people have called us," Dhaonag shrugged. "But we hardly _steal_ children."

"Oh, they come with you willingly, do they?" Amell asked belligerently.

"They do, actually," Dhaonag replied, raising her chin defiantly. "We offer them a far better life than the world ever will."

"They're _children_, they belong with their families--"

"Yes, they do. But the Chantry disagrees."

Amell stared for a long moment as something clicked into place.

"You steal mage children," she stated flatly.

"Yes. So glad you've caught up with us," Dhaonag grinned unsettlingly.

"You steal them... for what purpose?"

"To become one of us, of course."

Amell felt a chill run down her spine.

"You mean... you... you were... you're mages?" she asked, feeling coherency leave her.

"We were, once. We are something more, now," Dhaonag stated solemnly, gesturing towards the statuettes.

Amell had no way of recognizing them, but she realized now that they represented the spirits worshiped in these lands, not unlike Abeona.

Dhaonag, Dyson, the lyrium, the spirits, the feeling of wrongness emanated by the fae, it all came sharply into focus in Amell's mind.

"You're Abominations," she whispered, drawing herself away from Dhaonag.

The fae laughed.


	19. Chapter 19

"Abominations, what a quaint notion," Dhaonag muttered after she finished laughing. "We are not mere demons, wearing the flesh of mortals. We are something else entirely."

"You're possessing mages," Amell hissed, clutching her staff.

"No," Dhaonag shook her head solemnly. "We do not consume the souls of the mages. We intertwine ourselves with it. From what were once two lives emerges one gestalt being, more powerful than either of them."

"Then you... and all the other fae... you're all two people at once?" Amell asked, skeptically.

"No, I am one person, that I know," Dhaonag insisted. "I remember two lives. One in the Fade and one in this realm. But they are sides of the same coin now and neither life is less mine than the other. And both those lives chose to unite in order to produce me. Is that not how love manifests?" she asked liltingly.

"Ah, so I should think of you as married to yourself, then?" Amell frowned, still unconvinced.

"If that would help," Dhaonag shrugged. "We do not force this choice on anyone. We simply explain what it entails. But we have never been refused until now."

"That may have more to do with the fact that the ones you try to persuade are children," Amell pointed out. "I suppose it at least makes your job quite easy."

"Of course. Children lack the cynicism of adults," Dhaonag replied chidingly.

Under the circumstances, Amell was not about to feel guilty for her cynicism.

Dhaonag looked over her shoulder, her head twisting just a hair more than humanly possible.

"Ah, Dyson has arrived," the fae remarked. "Our conversation might have to be postponed."

Amell gestured for Sten to approach, just as Dyson was walked over to them, flanked by Dhaonag's two lackeys. The boy looked uninjured, but sullen and withdrawn.

"Dyson," Amell reached towards him, tilting his chin up to get a better look at his face.

"What?" Dyson asked peevishly, pulling away from her.

"Your sister's worried sick," Amell scolded. "You just took off without saying anything."

"M'sorry," the boy shrugged, looking down and scuffing at the floor with the tip of his shoe.

"It's fine. I'll just take you back and--"

"Actually," he interrupted, looking up at Amell earnestly, "Umm... Actually, these people are nice."

"I'm sure they are," Amell said carefully.

"Umm... I think... I think I'd like to... stay?" he continued hesitantly, sneaking a glance at Dhaonag.

To her credit, the fae did not look smug.

Amell sighed.

"Dyson," she started, placing her hands on his shoulders and commanding his attention. "Sorrel has been crying constantly since you've left."

"R-really?" he asked meekly.

"Really," Amell nodded. "I understand that you are old enough to make your own decisions--"

He nodded gravely, and Amell knew she found her opening.

"--but, you see, that means you have certain responsibilities. Towards your family."

"...Oh." He did not seem convinced yet, but his brow furrowed in thought.

"Towards Sorrel. She doesn't know what to do without you. You can't just leave her alone, you understand?"

"She's big. She can take care of herself," Dyson argued.

"Well, yes. But have you ever been completely alone in your life?"

"...No," Dyson replied.

Amell paused slightly and recalled her first days at Ostagar, wandering the camp alone and purposeless, uncertain and scared to the core. She recalled her thoughts in those times, how she would have preferred to face even the rest of her life at Aeonar, if it were in Jowan's company; how she would have traded all the freedom in the world for a friend. All to avoid that dreadful, oppressive _loneliness._

"Then trust me, leaving your sister like that, all alone... it's cruel. You're not a cruel person, are you?"

"No," Dyson looked down dejectedly.

"Then we should hurry back."

Dyson nodded without looking at Amell.

"That's not possible, I'm afraid," Dhaonag spoke sadly.

"Yes it is. We're leaving," Amell said sternly, grabbing Dyson's hand and putting herself between the boy and the fae.

"No," Dhaonag said simply.

"No?" Amell repeated. "You're going to stop us, then?"

"You would do the same, I'm sure," Dhaonag murmured, sadly. "We cannot let you go and tell others of us. Such things always end badly."

"And you're going to stop us, I gather?" Amell hissed, her fingers twitching in anticipation.

A shower of multicolored light descended from the ceiling, frothing on the floor and coalescing into a crowd of figures. Soon enough, the room was filled with countless other fae, all silent and watching expectantly. They were all just as strangely constructed as Dhaonag, their bodies a showcase of everything the animal kingdom had to offer.

"Yes," Dhaonag sighed. "I am afraid so."

Amell dry-swallowed. Sten had unsheathed Asala and Dyson must have had at least some grasp of magic, but this was a hopeless battle.

She had a moment of regret, that she had all but led Sten and Dyson to their deaths. Desperation gnawed at her, panic stabbed at her heart, but this all passed and she once again knew what she had to do.

"Well, then," she said and grinned, relaxing visibly.

Dhaonag was taken aback by this reaction. She was rendered completely shocked by what happened next, however.

In one swift motion, Amell sprang past the fae and lunged towards the pool of lyrium.

The room was plunged in harsh medleys of sound and light, bypassing the senses and lancing through the minds of the fae.

And for Amell, time stopped.

* * *

Lyrium is not liquid magic. It has no inherent magical abilities on its own. Only when used by a mage does it facilitate a closer resonance with the Fade, thus, in a way, refueling his or her magical energies.

In certain quantities, lyrium can be fatal to any mage, especially if the magical energy it creates is not expended immediately. But there is a short interval of time during which the lyrium can be simultaneously processed in a mage's body and funneled into a spell. It was what allowed the Tevinter magisters to perform feats well outside the reach of any other mages in their time.

However, where the magisters of the Imperium used their lyrium with careful planning and to great purposes, Amell had simply jumped into a pool of the stuff with only a half-cocked idea and a complete disregard for her own safety.

* * *

Amell could not have described what was happening to her. If mages had a deep connection to the basic forces of the universe, then she was just witnessing that connection unfurl, widen and explode. The Fade and the material world doubled in her perception and became juxtaposed.

She felt a great wave of fire come upon her and with a mere gesture, she unleashed unholy destruction upon her surroundings.

She saw strange beings around her, bastard hybrids who created ugly knots in the fabric of the Veil, snagging the Fade and snarling it, and she reached out to undo them. She ripped apart the two realms, separating them and extinguishing the creatures in the process. She did this gleefully, desperately, as pain throbbed through her body (or her soul?...), as it built up, more and more. The Veil, no longer tortured by their unnatural existence, smoothed itself out somewhat, approaching semi-normality.

Yet the power, the awful, beautiful, painful, irresistible power kept building, pouring through her from one side of the Veil to another. She could no sooner hold it back than she could stop a river from flowing using her hands.

But among the chaos, she remembered two small pinpricks in her perception, two lives that did not disturb the Veil. She remembered-- or perhaps only did it on instinct-- that she had to protect them.

She tugged the Veil (like a goddess; truly it was no wonder that mages once thought they should walk in the city of gods) and she twirled it around them, elegantly, simply. It was ridiculously easy and required no effort, but the _pain,_ the horrible, unceasing pain grew worse.

The dreadful buildup came to its climax, finally. Her tenuous control was gone. The Veil rippled and reasserted itself between her and the Fade.

Time began moving again.


	20. Chapter 20

Sten was not sure what happened, except to the extent that it was something unpleasant and abrupt.

It seemed that within a moment's space, the room had passed from being filled with fae to being plunged in a cacophony of sensations, to... how it was now.

The roof was missing, as if it had been ripped away, torn right off the walls that sustained it. The artificial lighting of the place was gone, leaving only the night sky and the moonlight to cast strange highlights on the remnants.

The bodies of the fae were strewn across the floor, contorted in pain, but dead and unmoving, despite presenting no apparent injuries.

"Wh-what happened?" Dyson asked shakily, as he looked around the room as well.

Sten did not bother to answer him. Instead, he stepped over Dhaonag's body and approached the pool. All the lyrium was gone, evaporated or used up, whatever it was that happened to lyrium. The remaining depression in the ground was no deeper than a foot and he had no trouble spotting Amell's crumpled form.

He stepped down next to her and brushed the hair away from her face. Removing a gauntlet, he touched her cheek; she was cold as ice. Alarmed, he pressed his fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse. He found it. Faint, but it was there.

He carefully picked her up in his arms, only to notice that she still had a grip on her staff.

"Boy," he called out to Dyson.

"Y-yes?" Dyson responded.

"Take her staff," he instructed.

Dyson clumsily made his way over the corpses of the fae and approached. He grabbed the staff, but it took him several tries to pry Amell's fingers off it.

"She's cold," Dyson remarked. "Is she dead?"

"No," Sten answered harshly.

The boy shrunk back.

"Dawn is approaching. We should hurry back to the caravan."

Dyson nodded obediently.

* * *

The first rays of light were already filtering over the horizon when they arrived at the campsite and many of the travelers were starting to wake and move about.

Sorrel, on the other hand, looked as if she'd been awake the entire night. Her face was drawn and her eyes were red from crying, but she lit up immediately upon seeing Dyson. She ran across the campsite and pulled her brother into a smothering hug while he vocalized his embarrassment.

Finally, she looked to Sten and froze once she saw Amell's prone form in his arms.

"What-- what-- is she dead?" Sorrel stuttered, shocked.

Sten felt only mounting exasperation at being asked this again.

"No. She..." He realized he had no actual idea of what was happening to her. "She is very ill," he said in the end.

"Oh." Sorrel wrung her hands worriedly. "We'll be leaving in an hour, so... Wait here."

She sprinted off to the wagon. Sten could hear crates and chests being rearranged, but didn't know what to make of it. She reappeared, poking her head out of the wagon, and gestured for him to come over.

He did so, reluctantly, but to his surprise, Sorrel had made a bed on the floor in the back of the wagon. How such a frail woman had had the strength to lift and rearrange the heavy crates, he did not speculate, but he was fleetingly grateful as he placed Amell down on the sheets.

"Umm... so, what happened to her?" Sorrel asked.

"I... do not know for certain," Sten confessed. "We were in a desperate situation. Whatever she did, it was to save your brother's life."

Sorrel bit her lip nervously and nodded. The message was clear: _Be grateful for this... or else._

"I could ask around, see if there's a healer in the caravan," she suggested.

"Do so, then."

She scurried off.

* * *

Sorrel found a healer, an old herbalist who was completely mystified by Amell's condition and did scant little to help.

The caravan started on the road again and by evening, Amell was no longer cold; she began running a fever, shaking and sweating. The herbalist finally came to some use, as he made various poultices to treat her. A fever, at least, was a clear-cut problem he could try to solve.

It worked, somewhat, because her fever lessened, but did not disappear completely. Amell was no longer shaking, but she frowned in her sleep and thrashed, as if gripped by some nightmare. She remained in this condition for two days.

Then, one evening, she finally opened her eyes.

Sten was by her side when she blinked awake, looking at the sky in vague confusion. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but only a harsh, broken sound came out, her throat too dry. He took a flask of water and, helping her raise her head, tilted it over her lips.

"Drink," he told her, unnecessarily. She emptied nearly half the flask before she fell back again.

"The ceiling is missing," she murmured, her voice threadbare and her eyelids falling again. "The dormkeeper is going to be angry."

"Kadan."

She opened her eyes properly, this time looking at Sten. Her gaze was unfocused, as if she was still half-asleep and not completely aware of her surroundings.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Tired," she replied. "What happened?"

"You are the only one who could know that, kadan," Sten said. "What is the last thing you remember?"

"I..."

She looked up to the sky again and her eyes glazed over. She was silent for a long time and Sten didn't think she'd answer, but eventually she started speaking again.

"I was looking up and I was seeing the Black City." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I used to have a painted skyball. I wonder what happened to it?" she asked idly.

"Do you remember what you did in that room? To the creatures?" he asked.

"I killed them. I remember. It popped. I pulled the Veil right through them and they just split apart with a pop..." she murmured.

"You nearly killed yourself in the process," Sten said, even though he understood nothing of her answer.

"I owed the world a death, anyway..." she said faintly, as she began slipping into sleep again.

"No," Sten stated firmly, touching her forehead. Her fever was subsiding. "You do not owe the world anything."

But she was already asleep.


	21. Chapter 21

Amell woke up-- and promptly wished she hadn't.

Her head hurt horribly and her body felt completely drained. Her eyes also felt fuzzy and just opening them left her more tired than before.

This felt suspiciously much like the one time Oghren had gotten her drunk, except she knew that couldn't be the problem, because she'd _definitely_ learned her lesson the first time.

It was only after glancing around a bit and seeing the wagons that she remembered where she was. It was only after puzzling over the issue for a bit longer that she figured out why she felt like she had the grandmother of all hangovers.

She marshaled her strength and propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring the dizziness that came over her.

It was early morning, from what she could tell, because the light was low and the campsite was numb and silent. She spotted Sten off to her side, sitting with his back against the wheel of a wagon, sleeping with his arms folded and his chin leaning into his chest.

He must not have been sleeping very deeply, however, because his head rose and he looked over to her. He seemed startled to see her for a moment, but he moved from his spot and brought himself closer to Amell, sitting down next to her makeshift bed.

"Kadan, are you alright?"

Amell licked her chapped lips, though her mouth was so dry, it made little difference.

"Thirsty," she said hoarsely.

He passed the flask of water to her. She sat upright and accepted it, finishing the water in two gulps and wiping her mouth with a satisfied sigh.

"What did I do?" she asked.

"I am the one who should be asking that question."

"Oh... yes. No, I... I remember what I _did_," she said slowly, folding her hands in her lap. "I just don't remember what effect it had."

"The creatures were all killed," he told her.

"Oh..." She looked down at her hands, her expression unreadable.

Finally, she sighed and rubbed her eyes.

"I feel so tired..."

"You have been ill for three days."

She looked up in surprise.

"Three days?" She blinked. "Well, I suppose I should be grateful I'm not dead," she shrugged with a grim smile.

Sten did not say anything at first, but he gently placed a hand to her cheek and turned her face towards him.

"You should take greater care of your own life, kadan," he said softly. "If not for yourself, then because I ask this of you."

Her lips parted in surprise and her eyes widened marginally, but she grew paler all of a sudden. Swaying, she leaned against him heavily, burying her face into his shirt. His other arm came up around her back, holding her.

"...Kadan?"

"Don't read too much into this, I just became light-headed all of a sudden," her muffled voice sounded.

"Do you need to lie down?"

"I think I've done enough of _that_," she snorted. "No, just... give me a moment."

"As much as you need," he murmured. As he said this, she rearranged herself more comfortably, making him suspect she did not plan to move any time soon. He didn't mind it as much as he suspected he should have.

He held her like that for a time, before she let out a shaky sigh and sat upright again. He did not release her immediately (because she was still weak from the illness, he told himself) and she sat with his arms still around her, coming together over her shoulder.

"Sten..." she all but whispered in a strange, faraway voice.

"Yes?"

It did not happen very quickly, but he still did not have time to react as she turned her head and pressed her mouth against his. It was not a soft kiss; her lips were chapped by fever. But he still felt something inside him react at the contact, warming him unexpectedly and making him savor the sensation.

And then it was gone. Amell broke away from him and looked down, her hair falling to hide her face.

He remained paralyzed by indecision for a moment, before slowly drawing his arms away from her.

"I'm sorry if I made you worry," she said, as if they'd been having a conversation up to that point and not... not doing something completely different.

Sten only nodded, because there was nothing else he could do.


	22. Chapter 22

It appeared that while Amell had been sick and unconscious, the caravan had finally left the forest. They were traveling over wide open plains now, flat and marked only by the occasional shrub.

Amell's only regret was that there was no visible water source, because she smelled like lyrium, ash and illness; it was an odor that seemed to upset the oxen. Oh, she could try to produce water herself, but she hadn't cast any magic since her little blow-up against the fae and she was afraid of what would happen when she did. In the end, Sorrel managed somehow to scrounge up a bucket of water for her and Amell washed herself as best she could, using a rag. It was not as good as a bath, but she no longer smelled like a failed magic experiment.

Still weak, she spent the day with Sorrel in her seat. The woman was strangely quiet and Amell did not mind this at first, as she was too tired to have to talk to anyone, but at some point, the issue would have to be addressed.

"So, Dyson has magic," Amell broached the topic.

Sorrel didn't reply at first. She instead looked grimly ahead.

"So do you," the woman said eventually, squaring her jaw. "I know you do. I recognize lyrium overdose when I see it."

"You-- what?"

"I know you're a mage," Sorrel continued. "A powerful one, I'd guess. Apostate, maybe. But that doesn't matter. You know what would happen to Dyson if the Chantry discovered him. You know the kind of life Circle mages lead, always watched, always controlled, always suspected..."

"Yes, _I_ know," Amell said amazed. "But why do _you?_"

Sorrel was silent.

"Sorrel, Dyson isn't the only one with magic, is he?"

"...Maybe."

"You lived in a Circle Tower, didn't you?"

"Not for very long."

"Is Dyson even really your brother?"

"He's... family."

Amell sighed. She had no idea what Sorrel even meant by that, and this whole mess was complicated enough. Apostate. Sorrel, of all people!

"How long have you been on the run?" she asked low, after glancing around and making sure nobody was listening. It was an unnecessary precaution. There was no one close enough to hear and even less people curious about the conversation between two women.

"Since before Dyson was born."

"Fourteen years?"

"Thirteen and a bit."

"And the Templars haven't found you yet?"

"I destroyed my phylactery."

"Oh? And how old were you?"

"Twelve."

Amell frowned.

"I had help, of course," Sorrel shrugged.

"You could have waited until you were older. You would have had more of a chance of survival."

"No. No, I couldn't have. You don't _know_."

_Obviously I don't_, Amell thought. _But _what,_ in particular, don't I know?_

"Things would have only gotten worse," Sorrel whispered despondently. "I made the right choice."

"What made you leave?" Amell asked softly.

"I had to go before the baby was born."

Amell was about to ask what baby, before she had a sudden and ugly insight into Sorrel's situation. She felt bile rise in her throat, and it had nothing to do with her recent illness.

She'd been _twelve_ at the time.

"You could have told someone about..." Amell started, too horrified to even finish the sentence.

"No. He was a Templar." Sorrel laughed humorlessly. "If I'd have told anyone about him, who do you think they would have believed? An unimportant little mage apprentice, or a Templar, claiming I was a demon and that I seduced him?"

Amell felt physically sick at the thought. She remembered a fellow apprentice named Myrah. She remembered when Myrah became pregnant and the whispers that ensued afterward. The dorms were buzzing with speculation about the identity of the father, but Myrah was tight-lipped about the entire thing and reacted to any questions with borderline hostility. Amell remembered how even she was curious about it, and she'd asked Jowan if anyone in the male apprentice dorms was taking credit for the deed, as it were. Jowan had shrugged, indicating that the ordeal was just as much a mystery there as in the girls' dorm. Then, Myrah had her baby and it was taken by the Chantry and soon enough, interest waned in the small scandal.

And then there was Wynne. Wynne said she had a son, hadn't she? Amell couldn't help but wonder at the circumstances surrounding _that_ pregnancy and now, her entire life at the Circle was put into an entirely new, much more sinister light. She'd never been actively afraid of Templars-- she certainly made sure she was on her best behavior around them and she knew enough to avoid drawing their attention, but they were more a part of everyday life at the Tower. Part of the scenery. She never felt threatened by them, possibly because the worst she'd received during her apprenticeship was a cuff over the head when she'd stuck her tongue out at Gregoir's back once and a Templar saw her. And now, to consider the fact that Templars had such power over the mages they watched, and to have proof that they could very well abuse that power and get away with it--

Amell was silent for a long time, mulling over this.

"Who helped you destroy your phylactery?" she asked after a while, recalling the difficulties she, Jowan and Lily had faced.

"Reverend Mother Allina," Sorrel replied with a fond smile. "She was a kind soul. She... found me crying one day. I think she knew right away I wasn't crying for childish reasons. Once she knew about... once she knew, she arranged for my escape. And destroyed my phylactery. I never knew what became of her after that. I assumed she must have been punished, but..."

Sorrel reached into a satchel and pulled out a crumpled envelope.

"She wrote to me recently," Sorrel said, frowning down at the paper. "She is asking for my help. I don't know how she found me in Cumberland, but... I have to go."

"It might be a trick to catch you. It might not have even been the Reverend Mother who wrote you," Amell pointed out.

"No, I think it's her. But even if this is a trick, I still have to go. I owe her too much," Sorrel shook her head.

Amell tried not to sigh. If Sorrel and Dyson were discovered... Well, Dyson was still a boy and the Chantry would probably avoid killing him, but Sorrel was Apostate. Her fate would involve far less mercy.

* * *

It was mid-day when the caravan stopped again for the night, because they'd come across a village. Drust always stopped in this village and he was unwilling to continue past even if they still had plenty of daylight, claiming they were doing good time.

When Amell saw the enthusiastic greeting the local tavern wenches gave him, she suspected Drust might have had some ulterior motives behind the decision.

She climbed down from the wagon, swaying on her feet as she touched the ground. She hoped there was an inn in this village, because what she needed now was a hot bath and a proper bed. While the wagons found their way towards an open field to the edge of the village where they could set up for the night, she remained in the village square, watching them pass.

It wasn't a terribly large village. Just a bit bigger than Lothering. There also seemed to be no adequate reason for it to be here. It was in the middle of nowhere, as far as Amell could tell. No waterways, no crossroads. Perhaps there was some other significance to this spot, but she could not discern it right away.

A hand fell to her shoulder and interrupted her musings. She glanced sideways at Sten, but he was not looking at her. The conversation with Sorrel had been distracting, but now she became painfully aware of the fact that she was facing a shift in her relationship with Sten. It remained to be seen what direction that shift would take. She stood very still and silent, waiting to see what would happen with mounting apprehension.

"I have secured you a room at the village inn," he said.

"Thank you," Amell replied.

He looked as if he wanted to say something more (and how amusing was it that he could jump into a cluster of darkspawn and chop them apart without so much as blinking, but he needed to build up his courage for any emotional display?), so Amell waited. Eventually, he stretched his other hand out, showing her the object he was holding.

It was a painted skyball.

"Oh," she breathed and reached for the orb. She stopped short, however, giving him a hesitant look.

"You wanted to know what had happened to it. I found it in your pack," he said by way of explanation, still avoiding eye contact.

Amell remembered, though up until then she thought that conversation had been a dream. She took the polished stone and smiled at him.

"Thank you."

"It was no trouble at all," he said, finally looking at her.

She felt a blush creeping over her face, but refused to squirm. There was something soft in Sten's expression and it warmed her to know that it was something reserved only for her. She wanted to kiss him again, properly this time, but they were in the middle of the village, with people all around and she had no idea if he'd be open to the idea. That, and he was a head taller than her and reaching would be difficult.

"Will you be coming to the inn as well?" she asked, tilting her head.

"I... Yes, I suppose I will."


	23. Chapter 23

There were plenty of people from the caravan milling in from of the inn, negotiating for rooms or, failing that, floorspace in attics and stables. After so many days sleeping under the clear sky, people were ready for ceilings again.

The innkeeper did not give Amell so much as a glance, but he did seem to pale slightly in Sten's presence, making Amell wonder just what the Qunari had done or said in order to secure the room.

She clambered up the stairs towards the first floor and Sten followed closely.

"Which door is it?" she asked over her shoulder.

"First on the left," Sten replied.

She was nearly at the top of the staircase now, but she stopped and turned around. Sten, two steps down, stopped his ascent as well, looking at her questioningly.

Amell threw only a glance past him and, when she confirmed they were alone, swooped and caught Sten in a kiss. His hands immediately went up to her shoulders, perhaps intending to push her away, but he only held her, gently and desperately, and he could not help responding in kind when she deepened the contact; she moved so languorously against him, her lips salty and warm, her hand pressing against his cheek, cold and soft. It seemed like it could have gone on forever, had reality not caught up eventually.

He pulled back, broke the contact and caught her hand in his, removing it from his cheek. Amell seemed unwilling to accept this and she leaned to resume their previous activities, but he caught her by the shoulders, spun her sideways and pressed her against the wall, keeping her at an arm's length.

She looked at him, defiant and unapologetic, flushed and panting, and Sten cursed himself because his own breathing was just as labored and for a short moment, he'd hated his armor for not permitting him to feel her body pressed against his.

"This way lies misery, kadan," he said, his voice strained.

"I would have thought quite the opposite," she replied cheekily.

He bit back a sigh of exasperation. Instead, he caught one of Amell's wrists and led her to the room, where they at least had some privacy. As he closed the door and turned to her, however, all the angry words he'd been preparing in his head faded.

She was looking at him expectant and unafraid. An opponent on the battlefield, he knew how to face, but not this woman who trusted him so deeply and thoroughly.

"I follow the Qun," he said without preamble.

"Okay..." Her eyebrows rose in confusion.

"In the Qun, all things have their place. All people," he continued calmly. "In your case, that place would not be... beneficial."

This she understood, because she frowned slightly and looked away. He knew she was thinking about mages on leashes and in cages again and that always upset her, but he had to finish this.

"And I cannot take you as my woman, because you are not Qunari. Do you understand?" He grasped her chin and made her look at him. She had tears in her eyes.

"No," she replied, her voice remarkably even. "I don't ask for legitimacy of our relationship. Do you think mages are allowed to marry? I realize that the world will not accept a great many things about me. But this is about us. This... this is only about affection and companionship; or does the Qun forbid these things?"

He was taken aback by this. He knew Fereldans had off notions about a great deal of things, but this was not a proper way of handling such affairs.

"No, but they would not last."

"Maybe," she conceded, folding her arms under her breasts and looking away. "But I'd rather take whatever happiness I can, whenever I have the chance, rather than be unhappy about missing the opportunity for the rest of my life."

"Even if it will cause you greater pain later?" he asked, his voice hollow.

She was silent for a long time (or maybe it just seemedlike a long time to Sten), before she spoke again.

"Tell me, Sten. What do you _want_?" she asked, her eyes betraying nothing. "I don't mean what your duty or the Qun dictates, I mean what do you yearn for?"

"I think you know," he replied.

She nodded thoughtfully.

"And what's stopping you from taking it?" she asked, tilting her head in a manner that exposed the graceful lines of her neck just a bit too well for it to be an innocent gesture.

"The knowledge that I would lose it eventually."

"That is a poor reason. If you'd have known you would lose Asala before it happened, would you have stopped using it?"

"Of course not!" He frowned.

"Well, then," she only said.

"The two situations are nothing alike," he protested.

"Why not?"

He had no reply to this. There were many reasons, but he could not articulate a single one at the moment. He wondered if it had been her intention from the start to confound him.

"When you have the answer, come find me," she said, as she brushed passed him and left the room.

He remained rooted on the spot. The creeping tendrils of uncertainty he always felt around her now had him firmly in their grip.


	24. Chapter 24

Amell left the inn caught up in her inner turmoil, but she somehow found her way to the edge of the village, within sight of the wagons.

She had no real desire to see anyone from the caravan, so she turned and walked along the outer fringe of the village, across the fields. She eventually passed grazing grounds, where she glimpsed cows and goats (watched over by rambunctious children only in the loosest sense of the word, because they seemed more concerned with their games than their parents' farm animals). When she passed a goat, it stopped its sedate grazing to bleat at her aggressively and leap away as if demons were on its tail.

Amell found this equal parts worrisome and comical.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead, but continued walking. She still felt wretched from the lyrium overdose.

There would be consequences, she knew. At the Tower, mages were provided with lyrium in modest quantities, for experiments and personal consumption, but overdose was rare. However, apprentices were taught from a young age the effects of lyrium. Too much at once, and the mage would be reduced to a dangerous, unstable individual, who would quickly become an Abomination. She wondered how much of this was true and how much was Chantry propaganda.

She stopped when she came across a road and realized it was the one they'd come by. She'd circled the village.

Struck by a sudden urge, she looked around, making sure there was nobody in sight. The village was a fair distance away and the road was completely empty now, stretching in the distance like a dusty ribbon and disappearing over the horizon. It was unlikely anyone would pop up without her seeing them first.

She flexed her fingers experimentally and considered which spell to use. Not lightning or fire, certainly; no use being too flashy, it would draw attention. No use trying an earth spell, either. The terrain was too flat and even a displaced pebble would draw attention.

Ice, then. She breathed in and, as she exhaled, she felt the crisp white sensation of cold being pulled out of the air and concentrated.

Then she felt like her mind was unraveling and her vision went completely black for a few seconds, like the worst case of mana depletion she'd ever felt, only tenfold. She swayed in place, then crouched to the ground (if she was going to fall, it might as well have been from a smaller distance). She breathed slowly and recovered somewhat, looking up to see the effects of her spell.

The ground, covered by short yellowed grass before, was now frozen completely solid, as was the road, as far as Amell could see. The wind-swept plains were completely still and the grass was no more than a mass of prickles.

Amell knew for certain it turned out nothing like she intended. A small patch, maybe, yes. But never before had she lost control of the amount of mana she poured into a spell as she did now.

This was bad.

And incriminating, she realized, and scurried away as fast as she could, rounding the village once more and entering it proper from another side.

With some luck, nobody would notice anything until the ice melted completely. It was almost dark, anyway, and it was unlikely people would have any reason to go and look at that particular patch of land, but she still felt guilty as she walked into what passed as the town square.

"Corinne!"

She nearly jumped out of her skin upon hearing her name called out. She managed to hide her flinch, however, by turning around quickly. Sorrel was making her way through the crowd towards her.

"Ah-- yes. Sorrel. Yes. What?" Amell squeaked.

Sorrel blinked.

"Did I startle you?" she asked.

"No. Well... a bit. No. Yes. There are some things going on that..." she gestured vaguely. She gave up trying to explain, however. One of the side effects of mana depletion was the inability to concentrate and in her case, that usually manifested as incoherence. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing's wrong, really," Sorrel said, while fidgeting. "I wanted to talk to you about something. Are you busy?"

"Not at the moment, no," Amell replied. She was made quite curious by this request and it offered enough of a distraction from her other problems, which seemed to be multiplying lately.

Sorrel grinned and hooked her arm with Amell's, pulling the befuddled mage away with her.

"Let's go for a walk. I can talk better while I'm moving," Sorrel chirped.

"Err, alright."

Amell could not have refused Sorrel much after their last talk. It was not merely out of kinship. Sorrel was Apostate and that notion still had some sway in Amell's mind. After all, Morrigan had been--

No, she had enough on her mind without dredging up _that_.

But with Sorrel, it was a sort of acknowledgment of her pain. Amell would never be able to look at her again without being reminded of the horrors of the world and of all the things she wanted to set right. For a while, she was sure she would not be able to refuse the woman much.

They probably made three rounds of the square before Sorrel started talking again.

"So where in Nevarra are you going?" she asked.

"No place, really. We're just... passing through," Amell replied, her voice low at the end as worries started clouding her mind again.

"Hmm. We're going to Mintara. Do you know it?"

"No, can't say I've ever been there."

"Well, it's where the Imperial Highway crosses the Minanter River. There's a great bridge there, a marvel of architecture, I'm told. It was built by the Tevinter Imperium over a thousand years ago and it still stands, proud as ever."

"Is this where Revered Mother Allina called you to?" Amell asked.

Sorrel's expression darkened. She did not look upset by the question, but more worried than anything. Amell sympathized.

"The Revered Mother was moved from her posting at the Nevarran Circle Tower and sent to Mintara, where she caught a local noblewoman's eye. Apparently, she is quite the advisor, in spiritual and material matters alike. But now..."

"There's trouble?"

Sorrel sighed.

"The Revered Mother thinks someone in the household is a... maleficar," she added quietly, as if the word itself could invoke misfortune. "She needs the help of a mage, but doesn't dare mention this to anyone, lest the maleficar finds out she has discovered him."

"So she wrote to you? All the way in Cumberland?" Amell asked skeptically.

"I know, I know," Sorrel shook her head, wisps of dark hair fluttering about her face. "But I was her last resort. She even said in her letter that she did not expect me to come. She asked if I could at least send a friend, though."

Amell's eyebrows rose at this.

"So you want me to go?"

"Why not?" Sorrel shrugged. "It's in your way, isn't it? And you said it yourself, it could be a trap. If it is-- and I rather doubt it-- I won't endanger Dyson. Or myself."

"But--" Amell stopped herself, considering.

It _was_ on their way. And if there was a maleficar running amok in Mintara, she couldn't very well just let things lie like that.

"Fine, I guess--"

"Great!" Sorrel twittered happily, interrupting Amell. "Sorry," she shrugged, sheepish. "I'll tell you everything Revered Mother Allina wrote me. I'm sure you can help her better than I ever could."

Amell nodded wearily as Sorrel started explaining everything in detail.

It was dark when she finally made her way back to the inn. She trudged up the stairs with more difficulty than normal and she was at the door when she noticed a shift in shadows.

She turned to see Sten waiting for her in the hallway. It was too dark to see his face, but there was something unmistakeable about his posture and his height. She waited tensely for him to do something.

"You asked what I would have done if I'd known beforehand that I would lose Asala," he said.

She remembered with a twinge that she had. A rather desperate thing to say, but she'd been desperate at the time. Now she was only resigned, too tired to argue, but she still felt a flicker of hope.

"The answer is, I would have held on tighter."

---

Author's note: my shoulders are killing me and my neck is stiff. I didn't proofread this chapter at all. I really hate keyboards right now.


	25. Chapter 25

Amell closed the door and leaned heavily against it. Though it was dark, she could see that Sten stood in the middle of the room, looking everywhere but at her.

She didn't speak right away (she'd said everything earlier and she was now curious to know what Sten had to say), but she reached for a lamp and lit it, using matchsticks. It was an unfamiliar action. Not too long ago, she could have done the same thing using only a thought, but under the circumstances, setting the room on fire would have maybe sent the wrong message.

Sten remained silent and oblivious to her movements, even as the room became bathed in soft lamplight. She pulled up a chair and sat down. She could have been patient. Most likely, she _should _have. But it was late, she was tired and still sick from the lyrium and she wanted nothing but to get this over with.

"Sten, you're overthinking it," she said.

He looked at her, surprised.

"These are serious matters," he replied.

"Yes. Serious and complicated," Amell sighed. "But we managed to get on just fine until now."

"You're tired," he observed.

"Just a little," she said dimly, rubbing at her eyes.

"We can continue this in the morning. You should go to bed."

Amell almost nodded. She'd feel better in the morning. More equipped to deal with this. But by morning, they would have to discuss other things as well and after that, who knew when they would have the opportunity to talk about _this_ again.

"No. I'm fine. You had something to say?" she asked, straightening her back and folding her hands in her lap, the picture of attention.

"I... am unsure of how to act. Towards you," he clarified.

"There's nothing wrong with how you've been acting so far," Amell said.

"But now we... But now the situation is different," Sten insisted.

"We'll figure it out from here," she reassured.

Sten sighed.

"This is an incredibly disorderly way of doing things."

"Oh?" Amell almost smiled. "We're not a very orthodox couple, you know. We have to make our own order."

His face softened in that almost-smile typical only to him. He approached and pulled off a glove, pressing a hand to the side of her face. Amell smiled faintly and nuzzled his palm; it was calloused and smelled of leather and steel, but there was something comforting about that.

"You have such confidence when you offer such simple solutions," he said wistfully. "Very well. I will go now." He tilted her chin up for her to meet his eyes. "Get some rest," he ordered in a voice that brooked no compromise.

Amell grinned and nodded against his hand.

"I will. Good night, Sten."

"Good night."

He lingered for a moment longer, staring as if trying to memorize every detail of her, before leaving the room.

---

Author's note: I'm going on a short hiatus. The truth is that I wrote this fic as stress-relief, mostly, and now that I am no longer strung-out because of exams, I just don't have that same nervous energy that compelled me to update every day. Don't worry, though. The second semester is starting and it won't be long before I'm bouncing off the walls once more.

In the meantime: woohoo, chapter 25! Er, it's short and it's actually only half a chapter, but I didn't want to leave you guys with a cliffhanger, no matter how good that last line was.


	26. Chapter 26

Amell woke from her sleep in a remarkably good mood. Perhaps the rest had done her good, though she still felt her eyes fuzzy from exhaustion. She dressed and went down to look for breakfast, all while humming to herself a jaunty little tune.

The innkeeper was behind the tavern counter, muttering to himself about undesirable guests and Amell felt rather daunted by the task of asking for anything at all. Clearly, this was not a man in a very magnanimous mood.

"Excuse me," she said tentatively. "Good morning."

He glared at her.

"What?" the innkeeper groused.

"I don't suppose there's anything to eat...?"

"You're one of those caravan people," he remarked.

"Err... Would that preclude me from getting any food?"

He opened his mouth to say something, but his eyes drifted at something over her shoulder and he grew pale all of a sudden.

She turned to see what had frightened him so.

"Oh! Sten, good morning," she said with a small grin at the corner of her mouth.

Sten nodded in greeting. He approached her and stood next to her. While he did not touch Amell, he did give the impression that he hovered possessively.

"I'll... I'll see that you get some grub," the innkeeper said faintly and disappeared into a back room.

"The caravan will not be leaving until noon," Sten told her.

"Noon?" Amell's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Any reason for that?"

"It is the estimated time around which Drust might wake up."

Amell suddenly recalled the warm welcome Drust received from the tavern wenches.

"Ah... so I guess I'll have time for a bath," she mused, not entirely displeased with this new development.

"There is also a curious rumor going around," Sten added.

"Hm?"

"It appears an entire field was found frozen solid last night."

Displeasure rose like bile to Amell's throat. She folded her arms, not looking at him.

"Since it is still summer, many people are speculating about what would have caused it to happen."

"Oh." She still looked down, trying to find the right words to explain.

"Kadan..." He grasped her arms and pulled her closer, drawing her gaze up to him. "Tell me what's wrong."

"_I'm_ wrong," she blurted, almost without meaning to. "I'm... not right. I had lyrium overdose. It's-- It leaves mages different. Broken. I don't know-- I don't know how, or for how long, but I'm--" She sighed deeply, realizing she was not making any sense. "I don't want to talk about it," she muttered miserably, looking away.

"Then you do not have to," he reassured and released her.

She only nodded, even though she wanted to thank him and hug him and possibly kiss him some more. But she was trying to gather her words again, knowing that next time, she had to explain, no matter what.

* * *

The bath had definitely been long overdue.

Amell could only sigh in contentment as she watched steam swirl up from the water. She'd also been provided with bathing salts and although the collection had been limited, it was still something uncommon in Ferelden and therefore exotic from Amell's point of view.

The warmth was also pleasant and she leaned back, staring at the ceiling and basking in the pleasant sensation of water cocooning her.

The ceiling had a rather impressive crack across it, with many smaller ones branching out from it, like little streams gathering in one big river. She stared at it for a long time, fascinated by its geography, and she did not even feel her lids grow heavy. She knew she fell asleep, however, because she saw-- or sensed, rather-- the Veil opening before her like a curtain. The smoke-darkened ceiling turned red and like an optical illusion, it transformed itself into an endless sky imperceptibly.

A dark shadow marred the red sky, its color singing madness in the distance; the Black City, like a celestial body made of nightmare, hanged above. The sky melted downwards in small rivulets of vivid color, settling into shapes of twisted trees and crumbled ruins.

The ground was unpleasantly organic--not like proper earth, not even remotely mineral--but like the back of a coiled creature, sleeping its millennial slumber. There were no straight paths, only twisting meanders and dead ends. Fleeting apparitions drifted to and fro, featureless and vague.

Amell hated the Fade. It contained too many unpleasant memories for her. Betrayal, when she was still a naïve apprentice, capture when she was a slightly less naïve Grey Warden, nightmares or tantalizing daydreams that she walked into, feeling awkward about knowing so much-- too much-- about the private hopes and fears of other people.

And she felt a pang of sadness for poor Niall, who did not deserve his fate. Oh, how she'd wanted to save him at the time! So, so few mages still remained and to have to witness the loss of another... The memory of Wynne's nightmare stung her for a long time after that.

But there was no reason for her to be here and she had no idea how she managed it. Usually, entering the Fade conscious required some sort of preparation or ritual, unlike during sleep. This development was slightly alarming.

So she retreated, making a metaphysical step back. She felt the Veil wash over her as she returned to the other side. Her perspective tilted upwards again and red skies receded, leaving behind only a cracked ceiling and a slight chill.

Amell realized suddenly that her water was cold. She jumped out of the bathtub cursing and grabbed a towel, drying herself off.

Usually, she liked reheating the water and soaking for a long time, but considering what had happened the last time she tried a spell, she would have probably ended up boiling herself alive. She was part way through dressing herself when a knock sounded on the door.

"Who is it?" she yelled, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

"May I come in?" Sten's voice came.

"Oh." In just a few seconds flat, she pulled her robe up, closed it and tied it halfway. "Come in," she called.

"If this is a bad time..."

"No, it's fine," she insisted, just as she was tying the last lace.

Sten entered and closed the door behind him. With one look, he took stock of the entire room and of Amell, who was still slightly damp, with the tips of her shoulder-length hair wet and her clothes sticking to her skin unpleasantly.

"The caravan will be leaving within half an hour," he announced.

"Alright."

"I trust your bath was pleasant?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly laden with implications.

Amell flushed. She had no idea what he meant by it, but after all that time spent traveling with Zevran, she knew an innuendo when she heard one. The thought that this was coming from _Sten_ of all people sent her mind reeling, however.

"What does that have to do with anything?" she retorted.

"I knocked earlier, but received no reply," he clarified.

"How long ago was that?"

"An hour, at most."

"And what did you think I was _doing_, exactly?" she folded her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"It is not my place to speculate," he said evasively.

Amell snorted.

"Not your place... hmph. I think Zevran's rubbed off on you."

"Let us not speak of _him,_" Sten muttered.

"Mm." She rubbed her forehead thoughtfully, returning to the more urgent matter at hand. "I drifted to sleep, I think."

"Is that a reason to worry?" he asked. It was clear to him that Amell was perturbed by something.

"Not by itself, no," Amell replied. "But... there are these things happening to me that... I think you should know about."

---

Author's note: my schedule this semester is insane. Whoever made it clearly has a vitriolic hatred of students.


	27. Chapter 27

The caravan was on the move again, but Amell forfeited her usual seat next to Sorrel. Instead, she and Sten hopped up in the back of the wagon and, among crates and sacks, she started telling him everything.

At first, it was only general information, about lyrium overdose. Then, it was about her lack of control and how she ended up freezing that field. She made a brief conversational detour into Sorrel's problem, but eventually, she found herself having to tell him about her spontaneous crossing through the Veil.

It was difficult to convey just how unsettling the experience was, or why, but he'd been into the Fade as well, so he had to have some inkling.

"It's not something that happens without reason," she said conclusively, feeling drained by talking so much.

"I see," Sten said, more to himself than to her.

"Do you?" she sighed.

She began wringing her hands, an uncharacteristic gesture of nervousness.

"I see that it would be unwise to go through with Sorrel's request."

Amell looked at him in surprise.

"What? But... if there's really a maleficar--"

"If there really is a maleficar, are you in any condition to do anything about it?"

She started to reply, but he interrupted her.

"Be honest, kadan. Towards me and towards yourself. In your current state, could you face a maleficar and hold your own?"

"I don't _know_," she answered despondently and buried her face in her hands. "I don't know," she repeated, her voice muffled.

"Then we will not risk it," Sten decided.

"No--" She looked up and hesitated for just a second before continuing, "No, it might pass. I could be recovered by the time we reach Mintara."

Sten stayed silent, but his doubts hung heavily in the air between them. Amell felt foolish all of a sudden.

"If you are recovered by then, we will do as you wish," he relented in the end. "But... I will not allow you to risk your life needlessly."

"I don't need your permission," she said petulantly.

"Yet you still want it," he replied. "You are a strange woman."

Amell huffed, but she still had to bite back a small grin.

* * *

Evening arrived.

Amell watched in apathy as the camp was set in the ruins of a former Tevinter outpost. The stone was gnawed down by time, but it was still the highest thing in the prairie, even though there was not even a wall left taller than a man's stature.

She set her bedroll behind a wall, in the shadows, away from sight. She hadn't seen Sorrel yet. She dreaded her next encounter with the woman and the disappointing conversation that might ensue. Added to that was the dread that she might never recover. That any spell she cast from this point on would drain her dry and run out of control.

But these were not things she wanted to think about, so she pulled out the skyball from her pocket.

The polished stone was as dark as the sky above, but the tiny dots across the surface glowed like pinpricks of moonlight. This surprised her. She'd never actually seen the skyball at night before. She usually played with it during the day, rubbing it like a worry stone, but even though she always told herself that she would compare it with the night sky one day, she just as often forgot about it completely.

Now, she began to wonder what kind of paint had been used to achieve this effect.

Her musings were cut short by firm footfalls approaching. She raised her head to see Sten.

"Do you wish to be alone?" he asked softly, as if not wishing to impose his presence if it was unwanted.

"No," she replied. "Please stay."

He nodded and left for a short while, before returning with his own bedroll.

He set it next to her and she wondered, briefly, how he'd known she was even there. She was concealed from view almost completely. But she was not about to complain that he was there now. He started unlatching his armor and removing it in practiced motions. Amell returned her attention to her skyball.

Eventually, he sat down next to her and they were both leaning against the wall, shoulder to shoulder.

Amell noticed just then how cold it had become and how much heat Sten emanated, but she remained still, staring blankly at the orb in her hand, incapable of recalling what she was thinking about before that moment.

She looked up at the stars as if they could provide an answer.

"Do you know any constellations?" she asked, struck by a sudden curiosity.

"Yes."

She waited for him to continue and almost sighed when he did not.

"Could you show me?" She moved the hand holding the skyball closer to him.

He took the polished stone, fingers brushing her palm as he grasped it, and turned it around. After a while, he started speaking.

"This--" He pointed to a cluster of dots that looked no different to Amell than others, "is Ossun, the Water-Bearer."

"Water-Bearer?" she muttered, even though she was not sure what she was looking at.

"It represents the image of a woman carrying a jug of water on her head."

"Why?" she asked.

"..._Why?_" he repeated, seemingly incapable of understanding the question.

"Why is she wearing a water jug on her head?"

"It is how women carry water in Seheron."

"What's wrong with their arms?"

"I assume jugs are slippery."

"So why not use buckets?"

"...This conversation is absurd."

"I'm sorry," Amell grinned unapologetically. "I never really understood constellations. I mean-- I don't see the shapes other people see in them."

Sten raised an eyebrow, but then he leaned in conspiratorially and admitted, "Neither do I."

Amell chuckled.

"However, stars are useful for navigation and travel in general. They provide orientation."

"Oh."

Amell readjusted her position, only by coincidence leaning against Sten's shoulder slightly.

"This one," Sten continued, showing another constellation star by star, "is called Shakan. They say it was once a beautiful bird, kept in a cage by a prideful shah. When the cage was opened one day, it flew out and so high into the sky that it became part of it."

"Shah?" she queried.

"Long ago, before the Qun, the nations of my people were united under the rule of a shah. A... king of kings, I suppose humans would call him," he explained.

"Who rules the Qunari now?"

"We are ruled by the Qun."

It was not the answer she wanted to hear, but she knew Sten well enough to realize it was the best she'd get.

"Were there many of these shahs?" she asked instead.

"Countless. They were assassinated quite frequently," Sten said bluntly. "But of those times, the legend of the Shakan remains. Its name literally translates as 'shah's pride'."

"So the shah lost his pride?" Amell surmised.

"In a sense. His pride was placed in something that could never truly belong to him, so it was lost completely."

They remained silent for a long time.

"Does it worry you?" Amell asked at some point, her voice low and soft. "Do you fear that you'll lose me because you think I'm not really yours?"

"Not in particular. I have also lost things that were truly mine, before."

"You mean Asala?"

"And my wife."

Amell thought she'd misheard at first. But as she turned her incredulous gaze on him, something about his posture and his expression told her that this was truly happening. He was looking into the distance as if remembering, as if this insanity were _true_...

"I-- I didn't know you--" she started, but couldn't find the words to continue.

"When I was young and first distinguished myself as an apt soldier of the Beresaad, the Tamassran considered me worthy of a wife. Eventually, I became married to an artisan from Par Vollen. We had only one year together before she suffered her untimely death."

He spoke this in such a normal voice that Amell started wondering if this was some bizarre dream. And somewhere along the line, she started _wishing_ it were.

"How did she die?" Amell asked, feeling hollow as she did.

"An illness," Sten replied sedately. "Such things happen. It was a long time ago."

Amell nodded dumbly, even as she felt blood rushing in her ears.

She rose to her feet awkwardly, her head feeling light from the shock. He made a move to rise as well, but she gestured for him to stop.

"Don't! Just... I'll be back. Please, wait here," she said.

And then she disappeared into the darkness of the open fields, confused and uncertain.


	28. Chapter 28

Amell knew the image she had of Sten in her mind was incomplete. But until now, she at least thought she knew enough. Now she had to reconcile the image she had of him with that of a young man, a young _husband_, and she could not do it so easily.

It was a self-centered view, she realized, to think of Sten as only the person she'd come to know since Lothering. He was twice her age and even if he weren't, he'd still have a myriad of life experiences she could never have attained at the Tower. This bothered her in ways she could not explain, because the things she did not know pertained mostly to Qunari society. Sten was far removed from his people now, but as they reached Seheron, who was to say she would not discover other things, more terrifying than this?

She stopped her wanderings and looked back towards the camp. The flickering of the firelight was more distant than she expected. She did not want to return just yet, but she was reminded of the manner in which she'd left. With a cringe, Amell came to the conclusion that Sten might have been hurt by her suddenly storming away. This habit of running away when faced with unpleasant circumstances had to stop.

She turned to walk back when the ground shifted almost imperceptibly. It was only due to the battle reflexes she'd developed since leaving the Tower that she stepped away just quickly enough for the emaciated hand that sprung out of the earth to grab the hem of her robe and not her ankle.

She had to squelch her other reflex, however, the one to call forth lightning, because she had no idea what would happen. Instead, she twisted her foot out and stomped on the hand. Long since rotted bones snapped with a sound like dry twigs.

The moon was bright enough for Amell to see the ground rise and crumble as an ambulatory corpse rose slowly from its shallow grave.

She stepped back, panicked, but she could see no other threats. This did little to ease her mind, however, because she still had no adequate way of dealing with the one enemy she was already facing. It rose to its full height, slouched to the left slightly, and turned the grotesque remnants of its face towards her.

She'd moved a good twenty steps away by now, but that still wasn't far away enough to form a plan.

Then, the ambulatory corpse lurched a step, tentatively, in her direction, before growling incoherently and starting to sprint towards her. It moved with uncanny speed and the little time Amell had to think expired instantly.

Instinct took over and, almost unbidden, she felt the Veil waver as electricity formed around her body, bathing everything around her in a bright intermittent light. The light pooled around her arm and, with just a slight motion, lightning flung itself at the creature with such violence, that it completely obliterated the corpse's midsection, leaving nothing between the ribcage and the pelvis but a charred acrid scent. It collapsed in two pieces, struggling and gurgling angrily, before its movements stopped completely.

Amell fell to her knees like a rag doll. Her muscles felt as if they'd turned to goo and become incapable of sustaining her. She could see only blackness and the afterimage of the lightning on her retinas, but that was not unexpected. And worst of all was that her lungs seemed incapable of drawing enough air and she started hyperventilating, lest she suffocate. Her chest felt excruciatingly pained.

She did not know the exact length of time she spent on her knees, focusing only on her next breath and the one after that, but as the pain started to abate, she felt strong hands on her shoulders and a voice in her ear.

"Kadan, are you injured?"

She shook her head, but her hands still clutched at her chest.

"Mana depletion," she explained, her voice weak and thready. "Too sudden. Hurts," she added with the last breath she felt she could spare.

He did not reply at first, instead taking note of the possessed corpse's remnants. After another look at their surroundings, she picked her up in his arms with ease.

Amell was not about to argue with this. She wasn't sure she could get her muscles to work right yet and she was not about to spend her night in a damp field accompanied only by a twice-dead individual. But she still felt the painful pangs of mana depletion. She'd gotten away with much less last time, when she froze the field, because she'd only been attempting a small spell. But with an enemy barreling towards her, she could not muster the same restraint and thus suffered the consequences.

She leaned her head against Sten's chest and closed her eyes. He did not have his armor (he'd probably rushed to find her after seeing that light show), so she found the heat emanating through his shirt comforting. She almost protested when they reached the camp and he gently placed her down on the bedroll, but gave up on the idea out of sheer fatigue.

---

Author's note: the lack of updates lately have been because of a combination of exhaustion, writer's block and a busy schedule. Things don't look to be improving anytime soon.


	29. Chapter 29

Her hands were shaking. Sten noticed this as he passed her the flask of water; she could not hold it properly, so he covered her hands with his and helped her drink. She was cold to the touch and her skin was pale and clammy, but none of that was as worrying as the fevered glaze over her eyes.

"This is new," she said suddenly, staring at her left hand with fascination. "Definitely- definitely- definitely new. This has never happened before," she continued, as if trying to make the point very clear.

"You're unwell." He clasped her hand tightly, stopping its shake.

"You're very warm," she sighed happily. "And I'll be fine once I recover a little. The shaking, though, usually only happens to older mages. I've seen it sometimes. Never- never- um... I've never... It'll stop soon, I think, I-- I'm rambling. I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry."

He didn't say anything, but he watched her intently. She looked sick, but agitated, her eyes flitting from place to place.

"This is my fault," he murmured after a while.

"What? No!" Amell tightened her grip on him. "Sten, I don't know what you think you did, but--"

"I shouldn't have mentioned... _her._ It obviously upset you--"

"Sten, no. Stop. I had-- I had no right to get upset over things that happened long before we met. I-- I was--" She licked her lips and inhaled slowly, trying to resume her train of thoughts. "Can't things just be alright between us? Can't they be just like they were earlier tonight? I...enjoy your company. Can't it always be like that?"

Her distress was growing, so he only nodded. This seemed to placate her, because she leaned back against the wall and sighed.

"Is it cold?" she asked after a time. "I feel cold."

She pulled him closer and even though her strength was still lacking, he obeyed, sitting down next to her.

"You're very warm," she mumbled, nuzzling his shoulder.

"As you've already pointed out."

"Mm."

Sten took the happy sound to be a good sign. Amell sat like that for a long time, still and quiet, so much so that Sten thought she'd fallen asleep.

"It really isn't my place, you know." She sounded tired and sad as she spoke.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I ran off over nothing. It shouldn't have mattered."

Sten sighed.

"Go to sleep, kadan. You will feel better in the morning."

"I'm not that tired," she protested, but she fell asleep soon after.

* * *

_The ground under her feet seemed to slink like a creature in the underbrush, hesitant of predators. The leafless, twisted trees around her did not look as ominous as one might expect, but instead gave the appearance of meekness._

_A rabid wind howled. It seemed to shear through the air. Something was amiss in the Fade._

"_You again!" a tremulous and familiar voice sounded; Amell turned towards its source._

"_Niall?" she asked incredulously._

"_You have to leave! You've made someone very angry and they're coming for you!" the mage warned, glancing over his shoulder apprehensively._

"_The Sloth Demon? But we killed him--"_

"_No!" Niall shook his head and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her. "You have to go _now_. They're coming for you! You--"_

_The rest of his words were lost as the wind changed its pitch._

_Amell woke up._


	30. Chapter 30

The sky had the steely gray tinge of pre-dawn when Amell finally opened her eyes.

She took stock of her situation; she was alone, Sten's bedroll gone, the campsite, quiet save for a few hushed shuffles as the first travelers began to wake. The constant tremor in her hands had subsided, but she still felt a slight malaise, though nothing quite as bad as expected.

She rose to her feet unsteadily, stretching her tired muscles.

"What happened?"

Amell nearly jumped out of her skin, taken by surprise by the otherwise unthreatening female voice. Sorrel blinked at Amell's violent flinch.

"What... happened?" the mage blinked, still disoriented. "Oh. No, nothing happened," Amell shook her head.

"Corinne, I felt it. The lightning last night. I _saw_ it!" Sorrel hissed, her eyes darting around for eavesdroppers.

Amell let out a sound of frustration. She suddenly had no patience for this.

"It's a long story. Trust me."

But Sorrel did not relent.

"Whatever you were doing last night-"

"Sorrel-"

"-If it's dangerous, if you're into anything dangerous-"

"Sorrel, you don't understand-"

"-I can't, in good conscience, let you-"

"Lyrium overdose!"

Sorrel's mouth shut immediately in response to that phrase.

"Lyrium overdose," Amell repeated calmly. "There are some-"

"Side effects," Sorrel finished her phrase. "Ah. Yes. I... I should have known. I... am very sorry."

Sorrel folded her arms and looked away, abashed. Amell sighed, feeling an unwelcome twinge of guilt.

"It's alright. It's alright. I just... have a minor issue with, ah, mana channeling."

"Too much or too little?"

Amell raised an eyebrow at the unexpected question.

"Too much."

"I see." Sorrel pursed her lips in thought. A few moments, only awkward silence hung in the air. "How about breakfast?"

Amell was once again thrown by the random change in subject.

"Sure," she grinned. "Breakfast sounds good."

* * *

Breakfast was a lukewarm bowl of oatmeal. It was bland, but not the worst thing she'd eaten by far. Sorrel filled the air with nervous chatter, while Dyson picked at his food moodily. He was apparently much less fond of oatmeal than Amell was.

Sorrel stopped speaking abruptly in the manner she always did when Sten approached, and she didn't even need to look over her shoulder to feel him looming there.

"Breakfast?" she offered, raising her bowl and chancing a look over her shoulder at him.

He wordlessly sat down next to her and Sorrel passed him oatmeal as well, suddenly looking much less inclined to talk. The rest of breakfast passed in tense silence.

The caravan started moving again. Sorrel did not speak much at first, but eventually she cleared her throat nervously and rummaged in the back of the seat, producing a pouch.

"You could probably use this," the woman said, offering Amell the pouch.

Amell took it and peered inside.

"Tea?" She raised an eyebrow at the gift.

"Paraman tea, actually. It kind of... dulls magical ability," Sorrel explained. "It's how Dyson and I manage. No inconvenient little bursts of magic when the blood rushes to our heads, you know?" She chuckled nervously.

"Oh." Amell blinked, touched by the thoughtfulness. "Thank you, this is-"

"The least I could do, all things considered," Sorrel shrugged. "Don't mention it. I mean, at all. Not many people know about its effects and I think it would be best that _certain_ ones never hear of it," she added meaningfully.

"Of course," Amell agreed. "But isn't there a risk they might find out on their own?"

"I don't think so," Sorrel grinned. "It's mostly only used for birth pangs. And quite frankly... well, it tastes awful."

Amell quirked an eyebrow.

"How awful?"

"Oh, trust me. Awful."

"Well, thank you all the same," Amell said with a sigh.

Sorrel smiled tightly and nodded, but didn't say anything more.

The rest of the day was spent in amicable silence.

* * *

When Amell first tried a spell with frost, she attempted to make a small sculpture. She wanted to make the chunk of ice into a duck, but the result was... lacking, to say the least. Jowan took one look at the amorphous figurine and tilted his head, noting that it looked like a smashed teapot. That put a definite end to her artistic endeavors.

She considered that first lesson while she flexed her fingers and prepared to cast the spell. She tried to recall the delicate flow of mana through her fingertips, but this time, instead of straining to push out as much as possible, she concentrated on keeping it as tightly reined in as possible.

She extended her hand, palm hovering over the ground so only the tips of the grass blades tickled it, and released a trickle of mana, cutting it off almost immediately.

She braced herself for exhaustion, but she felt fine. A small patch of grass, barely two hands across, had been frozen.

Amell made a small sound of satisfaction. She still released slightly more mana than she intended, but within acceptable parameters.

"I take it this was the intended result?"

Amell flinched and looked over her shoulder at Sten.

"Ah, well- Sorrel helped me get my problem under control," she shrugged, rising to her feet and brushing the knees of her robe.

Sten grunted.

"What?" Amell asked, tilting her head to look up at him.

"I would not have expected that woman to be so... useful."

Amell felt a twinge of indignation on Sorrel's behalf.

"She's more than she seems," Amell shrugged.

"As long as you trust her," Sten relented.

Silence descended, and Amell cleared her throat awkwardly.

"So, do you think we're close to Nevarra?" she asked, fidgeting.

"We've been in Nevarra for a day and a half," Sten answered.

Amell looked around, as if expecting her surroundings to have changed after receiving that information; the landscape remained the same, however: short grass and soft hills. The caravan, parked just beyond one such small hill, was not visible, but the sounds of raised voices still reached them.

"I'm not very impressed with it so far," Amell muttered.

Sten rumbled a low laugh, startling Amell momentarily, but she joined in with a chuckle.

"I think you would find their cities much more impressive, kadan," Sten said eventually.

"Oh?" Amell smiled. "Tell me about them. Have you seen many of these cities?"

Sten acquiesced and, as they both walked over to a nearby stream to fill their waterskins, he recounted his visit to some distant Nevarran city. He focused a great deal on its defenses and layout, on its people's martial skills and military history, but she found it all fascinating, nonetheless, and for the time, the air between them was relaxed.

* * *

Author's note: So, there have been no updates lately because, uh, basically I was on vacation in Portugal all summer. So while you guys were eagerly awaiting the next installment, I was probably chillin' on a beach or reading in bed or something. And then when I finally got back, my Internet connection crapped out on me, so you're getting this chapter about a week late. But all's well that ends well, eh?


	31. Chapter 31

Mintara was much smaller than Denerim, but it had a certain grandeur about it, and it was... _neater_ than the Fereldan capital. At least, that was the word that came to mind when Amell compared the two. Denerim had grown organically from a fishing village, to a trading town, to an important city, and that showed in its messy, narrow alleyways and oddly-angled streets. Mintara had actually been burned down three times along its tumultuous history. And each time it was rebuilt, larger and grander and more opulent than it had been before; so it became known as the Ever-Returning City. And its bridge, a great gray behemoth of a thing, as wide as ten streets and taller than any building in Mintara, was the last relic of the Tevinter Imperium, built to last until the entire world would be retaken into the embrace of the Maker and offend the eye with its unnecessarily-detailed stonework.

The architecture of Mintara was delicately decorated, unlike the hideous bridge that loomed over it. There was a stark elegance about the buildings, with their neatly square towers and sculpted arched windows. Framework was done in black wood, and the odd carving appeared on corners, repeating patterns that seemed to have some meaning other than decoration. Houses had narrow balconies holding myriad of potted plants, and the windows all had shutters, and they were all painted in soft colors or pastels, but remarkably diverse shades. Amell had never seen a pink house before, and though she found the notion amusing, she had to admit that it did not look as bad as she'd expected. Shops did not have signs, but their advertisements were painted directly onto the sides of buildings, along with lists of products and services in a flowing, organic script. Official buildings had metal plaques nailed just beside their doors, efficiently informing the people of their function. The streets were all cobbled, from one end to another, even some of the alleys.

The caravan had to camp just outside the city, but people soon spread out into Mintara, resupplying or simply taking in the sights.

"Revered mother Allina lives on the other side of the river," Sorrel said, pointing towards the bridge, its tapering spires visible in the distance.

"Ah, yes," Amell murmured, staring in the indicated direction. "She's Lady Adavina's advisor, you said."

Sorrel nodded slowly.

"What are you and Dyson going to do? Where are you going to go?" Amell asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

"Oh, I don't know. The orchards in Nevarra really do need workers," she shrugged. "Or maybe we'll pass over into Tevinter. I understand it's not as dangerous and frightening as the Chantry may have lead me to believe."

Amell smiled thinly at this. There was no humor in the situation, but she'd become a cynic where the Chantry was concerned.

"Anyway, I, uh... have something for the revered mother," Sorrel added, rummaging around in a satchel and taking out a folded piece of paper. It had been sealed with cheap candle wax.

Amell took the paper and stuffed it in a pocket.

"I'll make sure she gets it," she assured.

Sorrel nodded thoughtfully and they remained in awkward silence for a time.

"So, goodbye?" Sorrel offered hesitantly.

Amell opened her mouth to say something, but she shook her head and pulled the other woman in a hug. Sorrel returned the gesture after a few moments.

"Take care of yourself," Amell said, picking up her bag. "And keep Dyson out of trouble."

"Ah, that'll be quite a task," Sorrel chuckled. "And you take care of yourself as well. I am relying on you to catch this maleficar."

"Well, if I won't, who will? The templars?" Amell grinned.

Sorrel seemed ready to reply, but she suddenly stopped herself when she glanced over Amell's shoulder.

"I'll tell him you said goodbye," Amell offered, knowing exactly what had startled the woman. Honestly, after a few weeks on the road, one would think Sorrel would have gotten used to Sten by now.

* * *

Author note: _To be honest, I haven't had much inspiration to finish this fic because now the second game is coming out and nixing many of my speculations. I've been delaying because I don't know if I should just stop until I play DA2, or just screw it and label this AU. I've been writing WoW fic lately because, well, I'm more comfortable with WoW lore than I am with DA canon. But I _have_ been thinking about this fic lately, so it's not abandoned. Yet._


	32. Chapter 32

Lady Adavina's mansion a squarish, imposing building, chalky-white, but with the facade done in light blue and gold. The mansion grounds were sprawling, to say the least, the grass kept short and three alleyways meandering artistically from the gate to the steps that lead to the door.

Amell saw all this though the gate, of course, since the liveried guards posted there would not allow her and Sten passage.

"Halt!" one of them, a tall, middle-aged man said, raising his hand in an authoritative gesture. "State your business here," he continued in his thick, Nevarran accent.

"We're here to see revered mother Allina," Amell replied.

The guards threw sidelong looks at Sten, who remained impassive under their scrutiny.

"I have this letter for her," Amell added, producing Sorrel's letter. "From a woman named Sorrel...?"

On a sign from the first guard, the other, a much younger man, took the letter from Amell and briskly headed up to the house.

The wait was as long as expected, considering how large the house probably was, and how much time it would take to find the revered mother in such a place, but it seemed to pass even slower for Amell, who's become anxious to meet this woman.

Finally, the young guard returned and whispered something in his elder's ear. The latter nodded and opened the door.

"I'll be escorting you to her," he said.

"Thank you," Amell said, though she didn't miss the distrustful look he gave to her robes.

He said nothing more.

Curiously, he did not lead them to the mansion, but down a side-path that lead to a slightly smaller, but just as luxurious, house. It seemed like a simpler, more practical version of the mansion, perched on the bank of a green-tinged pond, in the shade of three tall trees.

The door opened. An elderly woman, thin and dry, appeared in the doorway. She gave the guard a look that was not quite a glare.

"Alaid, it wasn't necessary to escort them," she said, her voice just as thick with the Nevarran accent. "They are guests, yes?"

Alaid, the guard, grunted in reply. The woman—revered mother Allina, most likely—gestured them in. Alaid did not enter, but remained staring after the two strangers until the door closed behind them.

The revered mother pointedly pulled the curtains, obscuring Alaid's view through the window, and gestured for them to take seat on one of the many divans in her parlor.

"You are here on behalf of Sorrel, yes?" Allina asked, shuffling towards a seat of her own and sitting down only after her guests did so. "I did not have time to read the full letter, but you are to help with my problem, yes?"

She looked from Sten to Amell with rheumy eyes.

"She said you believed there was a maleficar in the household?" Amell offered.

Allina sighed and flopped back into her armchair.

"I do not want to believe it, and yet, what else could it be?" she said mournfully.

"What lead you to this conclusion?" Amell asked.

"It started a few months ago," Allina started explaining.

* * *

Small things, at first. A drape bursting into flames for no apparent reason. Small objects being sent flying through the air without anybody touching them. Always many people in the room at the time. All these were mostly harmless and minimally damaging, of course. People thought a gremlin—some sort of creature of myth around those parts, Amell gathered—was responsible for mischief. The servants placed saucers of milk with cat whiskers in doorways, because legend said that was what appeased gremlins.

"If only it _had_ been a gremlin," Allina sighed.

Then, all began having oddly same dreams, night after night. Not always nightmares, of course, but unsettling, and always the same. Dreams of falling; dreams of fumbling in the dark through an unfamiliar room; dreams of running from, or towards, something undefined.

Nobody was truly harmed until one of Lady Elerre's suitors (one of Lady Adavina's daughters, who was of marriageable age, Allina explained) was struck by a leaping flame from the fireplace. The problem, of course, was that at the time, he'd been _on the opposite side of the room_. Like an arrow, the flame sprung across the parlor, over the heads of numerous socialites gathered there at the time, and straight into the face of young Guillaume Methian, quite a handsome man before this incident.

* * *

"But _why_," Amell wondered out loud. "Why would a maleficar attack him?"

"Is evil not enough of a reason?" revered mother Allina shrugged.

Amell didn't believe so, no; even evil had to have some sort of impetus to act certain ways. But she remained quiet.

* * *

Templars came, inevitably, interrogating and testing everyone who'd been present at the time, but apart from scaring them, they did not accomplish much. This was when revered mother Allina sent her letter to Sorrel, reasoning that only another mage could find the one causing all this grief.

But the worst came only days later, when Lady Adavina's brother and her husband dueled each other to death over a small, inconsequential matter. Lady Adavina's brother, Morrald, challenged Lord Adavina to mortal combat. Lord Adavina could not rightly refuse without losing face, and at any rate, he knew himself to be a much better swordsman than his brother-in-law. However, seemingly possessed by a demon from beyond the Veil, no matter how many blows Lady Adavina's brother took, he rose up again, finally exhausting Lord Adavina and defeating him with a slash to the throat. Lord Adavina died almost instantly.

Morrald died minutes later, collapsing to the ground, soaked in his own blood and covered in wounds gotten during the duel.

* * *

"We thought maybe... maybe Morrald had been the maleficar," Allina said. "But just days later, we entered the main dining hall to find all the furniture seemingly gone. When we looked up, we realized—it had been frozen to the ceiling."

"Frozen to the ceiling?" Amell repeated.

"Oh, yes. Chairs, table, even the candle holders, all neatly arranged on the ceiling as if mirroring their proper position on the ground," Allina nodded. "It took two days for the ice to melt and everything to fall down. We'd just... we'd hear things fall through the day, great crashes as chairs splintered on the floor. When the table fell..." Allina shook her head. She did not continue.

"And you believe a maleficar is responsible for all of this?"

"Don't you?" Allina blinked.

Amell pursed her lips.

"We'll have to see," she said to herself quietly.


End file.
